


To Make the Season Bright

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-12 04:11:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 49,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12951015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: It's just one weekend. At Christmas. In New York. With everyone there. With Killian there. It's fine. Emma doesn't mind – he's always there and she wants him to be there and it'll be good. Great, even. Festive. She's looking forward to it.She just hopes she doesn't do something stupid. Like shout feelings in his face. That probably wouldn't be very festive.





	1. Chapter 1

**What time is your train again?**

_It’s four in the morning, Swan._

**That’s not the answer I was looking for.**

_I’m going to need a few more words then. Several different nouns. Maybe an adjective or two thrown in just for good measure._

**Why are you like this?**  
  
_Because, as mentioned, it’s four in the morning. Where are you? Are you in your car?_

**I mean, obviously.**

Emma rolls her eyes, glancing out the window she’s been using as a quasi-pillow for most of the night and this guy isn't going to show. God damnit. Another waste of a night and August is going to kill her.

Maybe he won’t give her the time off.

Then she’ll have an excuse not to go.

She really wants to go.

She maybe, sort of, kind of really wants Killian to go. He’s got to go. Right? His brother’s involved. And they’re all a great, big happy family. Kind of.

God, she hopes not. That makes all of this decidedly weird.

Her phone is still buzzing in her hand.

_Did you bring food? Or a blanket? That piece of garbage car doesn’t have any heat in it. At least tell me you brought those hand warmer things._

**I think you’re just trying to find out if I’m using your gift in the field.**

_They weren’t a gift. They were a tactical attempt to make sure that your toes don’t fall off in the middle of a stakeout in December. I’m well acquainted with cold and the potential for frostbite, Swan. And, my train is at nine so there is minimal chance of missing it and Liam doesn’t kill me._

She groans out loud, head thrown back against the seat and only he would be willing to tease her at four in the goddamn morning. He doesn't have to worry about Liam. Emma is going to kill him. Or maybe...just kiss him until he can’t see straight.

No.

Absolutely not.

The opposite of that.

She’s an unqualified disaster – who’s completely given up on even the idea of a stakeout at this point and her coffee went cold hours ago and she’s so goddamn bored it’s practically making her go cross-eyed, which almost explains why she tugged out her phone and started texting Killian Jones at four in the morning.

And maybe she really likes talking to Killian Jones at whatever time of day or night and has for years and Emma doesn’t really do _friends_ , is usually more than content to just linger in the realm of acquaintance and professional contact, but this all just kind of happened and, if asked, she’s more than willing to blame David.

It really is his fault.

Killian would agree with her.

David was barely out of the Academy, more prone to handing out traffic citations than diving into the deep end of investigations and grand larceny, but he’d been in the vicinity when the call went out and was nothing if not just a bit desperate to prove himself. So he went to South Street Seaport and avoided the constant horde of tourists and found himself face to face with the Jones brothers and their sailing company and their missing money and he took statements and helped solve crime or _whatever_ and, suddenly, they were all friends.

Emma is still fairly convinced David broke several rules when he did that.

He didn’t care.

And he didn’t argue when Liam Jones offered up one of his boats – and Killian would tell her _ships, Swan, they’re called ships, if you’re going to make fun of them, at least do it accurately_ – when David decided to, finally, ask Mary Margaret to marry him five years ago.

Mary Margaret, naturally, said yes – or _screamed_ yes if David’s story was to be believed – and the Jones brothers were invited to the wedding and Emma met Killian Jones in front of a table covered in champagne flutes and a questionable number of dessert options.

He looked unfairly good in a suit – all dark hair and blue eyes and a slight flush to his cheeks because it was negative ten-thousand degrees outside and there was some kind of historic wind coming off the East River, so, naturally, they’d taken pictures right next to the water.

He laughed at the goosebumps she couldn’t seem to get rid of, no matter how much champagne she kept drinking and made some quip about how he was having _some sort of affect on you_ and Emma rolled her eyes and decided, rather quickly, to hate him.

That didn’t last long.

She kept drinking and he kept drinking and he looked so _goddamn good_ in that suit and she dimly remembers dancing and laughing and talking and walking out of the hall with his jacket over her shoulders and...nothing else.

Emma woke up the next day in her own hotel room with record wind chills outside and a glass of water sitting next to two Tylenol and a note that read –  _take these, wait three hours before you drink coffee and remember to wear layers when you go outside_.

He’d programmed his number in her phone.

She didn’t text him.

Not for weeks. And Emma didn’t think about what she didn’t remember, far too nervous – _terrified_ – to ask Mary Margaret or David or, God help her, Liam and, well, she had a life to get back to. She had deadbeat criminals to catch and return to jail and Killian had ships to worry about and Emma didn’t even live in New York.

It couldn’t work.

She didn’t think that. Of course not.

She didn't want it to work. She didn't want to know what happened.

She didn't think about it at all, until, six hours into a stakeout in Dorchester and she was fairly convinced she was actually going to just start punching her steering wheel if she didn’t do something and, suddenly, Emma Swan found herself texting Killian Jones and talking to Killian Jones and that was three years, nine months, four weeks and two days ago and they were still talking and she really, really wants him to go to New York for Christmas.

They never talk about the wedding.

And it doesn’t really matter because they just seem to fall into friendship and comfort and some kind of routine where it’s all just enough.

Her phone buzzes in her hand, jerking Emma out of memories and wants and she actually starts mumbling under her breath, like she’s trying to psych herself up to look at Killian’s latest message.

 _Swan. Did you wake me up just to ignore me, because, I have to be honest, love, that’s kind of rude_.

She sends back a string of emojis that don’t really make sense in context, but are probably enough to get him to smile and, more importantly, give her a chance to catch her breath. She hasn’t actually moved in hours.

She feels like she’s run several marathons.

**Do you have tours tomorrow? Does the other half get to just go out on the ocean no matter what temperature?**

He left New York a year after the wedding – a Jones Tours expansion that Emma knows meant the world to him because it meant Liam _trusted_ Killian and all Killian really ever wanted was for Liam to trust him, especially after grand larceny and the accident and there was money in Newport.

There were rich people with a deep-rooted desire to be on ships and host parties and eat expensive appetizers and mutter _what do you think happened to him_ under their breath when they noticed Killian and the prosthetic at the end of his left arm and even the thought made Emma’s pulse pick up again.  

_Docked. For dinner. Someone I’m not entirely unconvinced isn’t secretly John Jacob Astor come back to life has booked the entire goddamn ship for a very fancy dinner that has required me to talk to a very snotty caterer about linen options for most of the week._

**Didn’t John Jacob Astor die on the Titanic?**  
  
_Why is that something you know?_

**Did you not? That’s basic boat knowledge.**

_Ships, Swan. We have been over this eight-hundred thousand times._

She sends him more emojis – three of that little person paddling a canoe and five doughnuts and one set of toasting champagne glasses, which, she’s found she sends more often than just about anything else when she’s talking to Killian.

_Is that an offer to buy me a drink when I’m in New York later this week?_

Her heart absolutely does not stop beating for half a second – mostly because Emma’s fairly convinced it just grows sixteen sizes instead and she nods in response, barely even remembering that she’s texting him and not FaceTiming him because, technically, she’s supposed to be working.

And he probably was going to try and sleep late if he has a dinner cruise the next day. Or, well, later that night.

Emma only realizes she hasn’t actually responded when her phone shakes in the vice-like grip she has on it, nearly dropping the stupid thing and she manages to hit her head on both the roof of her car and the rearview mirror.

Killian would laugh at her.

_I can buy the drinks if you want. I’m anticipating a few drinks._

**What? Why?**

_Liam claims he has very important news and I won’t want to miss it. I’m fairly positive he’s exaggerating, but that may just be my anti-New York views shining through_.

 **Since when are you anti New York?  
**  
_Since my brother wants to share very important news a few days before Christmas and I don’t want to pay for a hotel so I am staying in his and Elsa’s spare room._

_Also, you know, tourists._

**We’re not going to do touristy things.**

_Swan, are you kidding me? It’s Robbie’s first Christmas. If you don’t think Mary Margaret doesn’t have some kind of schedule to ensure that there are photographs of him at every major Manhattan destination and, possibly, that festive flower arrangement in Brooklyn, then you clearly haven’t been paying attention._

**You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?**

_It’s easier to tune out the caterer and the difference between ivory and eggshell that way._

**Is there a difference?**  
  
_I really don’t think so._

**Huh. You know, I’m staying in a hotel. Well, Airbnb, but the sentiment is the same.**

He doesn’t answer immediately and Emma’s previously expanding heart seems to shrink and twist at the same time and it’s as uncomfortable and as cold as her car has become in the last few hours.

Emma chews on her tongue and her lip and her eyes keep darting towards the door of the building she’s been sitting in front of for what has felt like actual days, but she knows this guy is long gone and that just means she’s going to have to start all over tomorrow.

Maybe she can catch him at a bar.

She’s always been good at that.

She’s just about convinced herself that Killian has probably fallen back asleep, but some obnoxious corner of her brain is quick to point that he’s never done that while she’s been on a stakeout and that same voice is even quicker to point out that it’s because _he cares_ , but Emma ignores both noises and her phone does a pretty good job of drowning them out when it vibrates again.

_Are you offering to house me in my time of need, Swan?_

**I mean if you get belligerently drunk then absolutely not, but if you’re a delightful drunk who’s willing to make fun of tourists and how expensive it is to ice skate at Rockefeller Center then, yes, absolutely.**

_I think you just called me a delightful drunk._

**Sometimes.**

_I’ll take my compliments when I can, love, particularly at some ungodly hour in the morning._

**I’m sorry I woke you up.**

_Don’t be. I’m glad you did. You get the guy?_  
  
**Nah. Which I don’t understand since I’ve been sitting here forever, but he’s got a tendency to go to this piece of garbage bar on Adams Street, so I’ll probably try there tomorrow. It’s easier when I’m not stuck in my car anyway. I can at least feel my limbs.**

_Are you really not using the hand warmer things? I can bring more to New York._

Emma smiles before she realizes her brain has decided she’s happy – or some other emotion that is decidedly more problematic than happy, particularly when she’s just offered to share a hotel room with Killian.

At Christmas.

After, likely, being forced to do every single tourist activity in Manhattan. And probably Brooklyn. God, Emma doesn’t want to go to Brooklyn.

She wants to get delightfully drunk with Killian and watch him make faces at an absolutely adorable Robbie Nolan because he does that every time he sees Robbie Nolan and Emma’s fairly convinced he doesn’t even realize.

It might be the single most charming thing she’s ever seen in her entire life.

**You don’t have to bring more hand warmer things to New York. And, yeah, I’ve got some in my boots. I can feel my toes. Just...not much of the rest of me.**

_I’m going to bring you more hand warmers._

Emma laughs – a slightly giggly, absurd sound that seems to just bubble out of her chest and her teeth tug on her lip when she closes her eyes lightly.

**Yeah, I know you are.**

She catches her skip the next night – sitting at the bar with overpriced vodka in front of him, just like Emma knew he would be and his eyes almost visibly light up when he notices her. She doesn’t really have a uniform, per se, while she’s in the field, mostly because wearing _Booth Bonds_ embroidered on some kind of polo would probably be bad for business, but in situations like this Emma has a small arsenal of well-fitting dresses and heels she can actually run in and she’s ready to use both to get this asshole back to jail.

It goes easier than she expected and she expected it to last all of an hour, so Emma is pleasantly surprised when she’s back in her apartment just before one in the morning, August’s _have fun this weekend_ ringing in her ears.

She goes through the motions of her post-work routine, kicking out of her heels and sighing when her feet land flat on her floor, grabbing milk out of the fridge to make hot chocolate as she tugs the pins out of her hair and scrolls absentmindedly through several different social media feeds while she waits for the microwave to ding.

It does and she takes the mug out, padding back across the living room and towards the couch and the TV on in the background is just as mindless as the endless Twitter updates she’d just been reading, but Emma’s not really paying attention when her thumb hits a name and a number and she should probably start calling him at more _normal_ times.

He was asleep. Or had been well on his way to sleep, hair disheveled when he blinks at the phone screen and he only keeps one eye open when he arches an eyebrow at her, a look that is so _painfully_ Killian it sends a jolt of something down Emma’s spine.

“Swan,” he mumbles, mostly into the pillow he’s still resting on and Emma tugs both her lips back behind her teeth, balancing her mug on her knees when she tugs them towards her chest. “Are you alright, love?”  
  
Emma nods, teeth still digging into her lower lip and Killian opens his other eye, shifting slightly until she can make out the far wall of his room behind him.

She doesn’t really remember when he stopped actually using her name – a pair of nicknames Emma would normally turn her nose up, and did at one point, if it were anyone other than Killian – but it might have been in between the first and the fifth glass of champagne at David and Mary Margaret’s wedding and, at some point, it’s just become part of _them_.

As if there is a them.

His gaze drifts across her face – looking for bruises or lacerations or signs that her skip actually struggled before being forced into a police car earlier that night and Emma can see his shoulders shift when he realizes there aren’t any of those things.

He keeps staring at her though, intent and blue and the exact opposite of friends and Emma’s hot chocolate is going to go cold.

“Not an answer, love,” Killian continues, still not quite sounding awake and Emma’s teeth finally have mercy on her lower lip.

She nods again and he rolls his whole head back onto the pillow. He’s not wearing a shirt. There are frames on the small table next to his bed and Emma’s never actually been to Newport – she’s got a job and crazy hours, as this one in the morning phone call proves, and he’s spent the better part of the last two years trying to prove himself and the timing is just never right for Emma to go there or for Killian to come here – but she can just make out her own face in one of the photos, her head resting on Killian’s shoulder and his arm tight around her and the sun reflecting off New York Harbor behind them.

She’s well acquainted with that picture. It’s the lock screen on her phone.

“Swan,” Killian drawls and it sounds like a whine, frustrated enough that it works a laugh out of her and he glares at the phone screen.

“I am fine,” she promises. He lifts both his eyebrows. “Really. It was all done in nearly record time and I think August is going to build a statue in my honor or something. Right next to Samuel Adams.”  
  
“Is that Samuel Adams or John Adams in Quincy Market? And is that where the Quincy in John Quincy Adams comes from? Or the other way around?”  
  
“Probably the second one. Also, it’s in front of Quincy Market, if you want to get technical.”  
  
“I don’t,” he mutters, flipping again and tangling up the blankets he’s wrapped in and Emma tries not to laugh too loudly. It doesn’t work. His hair is sticking up everywhere. “What time is it anyway? And why Samuel Adams? He wasn’t a president.”  
  
“I mean neither was Alexander Hamilton, but look how that turned out.”  
  
Killian hums in agreement, burrowing his head into the pillow and his shoulders shift when he takes another deep breath. “You’re really ok?” he asks again, eyes flitting back towards Emma’s face before trying to work their way down her body. “That guy didn’t try and throw any punches did he?”  
  
“That happened one time,” Emma argues, curling into the corner of the couch and Killian doesn’t even bother responding because it had been vaguely terrifying and he might have been more worried than Mary Margaret and David put together.

He offered to come to Boston when Emma called him – before Mary Margaret and David – sitting in an ER bed with a machine beeping in one ear and his nervous questions in the other and she’d broken her ankle trying to dodge a punch and it only took sixteen promises of _I’m fine, Killian, honestly_ before he agreed to stay in Rhode Island.

“You are avoiding my questions, Swan,” Killian accuses, but there’s a note of sincerity in his voice that does something very specific to Emma’s pulse.

“I’m not, really. I just…”

Emma trails off, taking a far-too large swig of hot chocolate and that’s a mistake because it burns the back of her throat and seems to settle in the pit of her stomach like some kind of flaming boulder.

Killian’s eyebrows lower and his eyes narrow slightly, another look Emma’s all too familiar with and he moves again until he’s propped up on pillows and staring at her incredulously like he’s just waiting for the truth to start spilling out of her.

“What happened, Swan?” he asks and it should be a simple question. It is a simple question. It’s just not quite a simple answer.

“Nothing,” Emma lies and he actually has the audacity to laugh at her, sounding far more awake now that he’s activated _worried mode_. “There are no cuts or bruises. No punches were thrown. My dress is actually almost dry.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“He threw his drink at me when I cuffed him.”  
  
Killian scoffs, but it’s more impressed than anything and he smiles at her, eyes flitting back down towards the neckline of her dry, but absolutely stained dress. “Alright, well what did he say then?” he asks and Emma marvels slightly at his ability to get to the center of the issue when she wasn’t even really aware there was an issue until his slightly sleep-deprived face showed up on her phone screen.

“How?” Emma counters, sitting up a bit straighter out of habit. Killian doesn’t even blink.

“It’s one in the morning, Swan. You haven’t even moved out of the living room yet and you just downed that hot chocolate like you were doing shots. We said we weren’t going to get drunk until we got to New York.”  
  
“I don’t remember making plans to actively try and get drunk. That was more a generic what if.”  
  
“Eh, a little bit of both,” Killian grins, tilting his head to try and get the hair away from his eyes. Emma drinks more hot chocolate. “The truth this time, love. Did he say something to you?”  
  
Emma sighs, scrunching her nose and twisting her mouth and the small fire ball of hot chocolate in the pit of her stomach seems to evolve into something else, decidedly out of place ahead of a fun _Christmas in New York City_ weekend.

Killian doesn’t say anything, just blinks twice and waits, moving further down the bed so he can brace his arm against his leg and that’s how it’s always been.

He just waits – for her and her explanations and her questions and it’s easy and comforting and Emma wants so much, particularly during a fun _Christmas in New York_ weekend and she’s going to wind up with coal or however that metaphor works.

“This guy…” she starts, mumbling the words and she can almost see Killian perk up instantly. It makes her smile. “He was trying to run and, uh, well I read the file...you know, obviously, but he’s got two kids and the wife had put up the money for the bail and it’s almost Christmas.”  
  
She swallows back the ball of _whatever_ she can feel sitting in the back of her throat, doing her best to avoid looking at anything, especially the lack of _festive_ in her apartment or Killian’s apartment or, well, just Killian’s entire face, certain it’s doing that understanding thing it always does.

“And, so, we went through the usual schedule of things and the trusting and the cuffing and the drink throwing and we got him in the squad car and he made some...you know what, it doesn’t matter. I don’t...you were asleep.”  
  
Killian’s lip quirk, like he’s trying to stop himself from smiling and it’s a piss poor excuse because Emma has a habit of waking him up and he’s never once complained.

There’s no reason to think he’ll start tonight.

“Swan,” he says slowly and Emma growls in the back of her throat. He’s definitely smiling now and his hair is back in his eyes, falling across his forehead in a way that makes Emma want to teleport to goddamn Rhode Island and shove her fingers into it. “C’mon, look at me for two seconds, love.”  
  
She’s half a second away from chastising him for double nickname use, but the words get stuck in her throat when she does finally meet his gaze and he’s staring at her like she’s the center of the goddamn universe or the star at the top of the Christmas tree or something.

“What did he say?” Killian repeats, soft enough that she can barely hear him several hundred miles away, but intent enough that she knows she’s not getting off the phone without an answer.

“I walked right into it, honestly, made some kind of quip about how he needed to rethink his life and how he was going to hurt his kids and his family and maybe mentioned Christmas or just some generic holiday and…” Emma trails off again, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling and it’s snowing. Figures. “And, well, it doesn’t really matter because, like I said, it was my own fault, but he was a dick and started shouting about how I probably didn’t know anything about having a family either and…”  
  
She shakes her head, rolling her eyes like that will prove how _fine_ she is and how her subconscious just decided to call Killian when she was upset.

It probably didn’t have much to do with her subconscious.

“That was a long time ago, love,” Killian mutters and he’s not wrong.

It was a long time ago.

An eternity ago, really, filled with disappointments and different houses and families that didn’t want her anymore when they could have a kid with the same genetic makeup as them and Emma knew all of it, knew she was ok and being a product of the system wasn’t really all that bad when she had a job and an apartment and the deep-rooted desire to make something of herself.

If only to prove that she could.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Emma mumbles, well aware that it doesn’t sound even remotely convincing. She sounds like a vaguely exhausted broken record with a burnt tongue and a generic frustration at the world that she’s slightly terrified will never go away.

“I retract my previous request for alcohol,” Killian says suddenly and it’s the last thing Emma expects. He laughs when she makes some kind of confused noise, eyes flashing at her and it’s all blue and emotion and she _wants_ and can’t have and this weekend is going to be some great, big, enormous tease dressed up in red and green.

“I’m very confused by this alcohol schedule you feel like you’ve come up with,” Emma admits and the smile becomes a smirk and she’s fairly positive a whole pack of butterflies break out in every inch of her body.

“Stick with me, love, I promise it makes sense.” Emma widens her eyes, waiting for the rest of it and Killian’s tongue flashes against the corner of his lip, something flitting across his gaze that she’s not sure she could name if she tried. It feels a hell of a lot like want.

“At first,” he continues, “I was going to buy the first round because, well, you know I’m a gentleman, but then, depending on whatever Liam’s great, big important news is, I was going to just let you open a tab somewhere downtown and we’d see where we went from there. I’ve changed that plan now to just buying you alcohol all weekend, Swan.”  
  
He grins at her like that’s _that_ and it kind of is because he’s nothing if not the single most stubborn human being on the planet. Or, at least, a close second to Emma herself, but he’s still staring at her that very particular way and she tries not to dwell on the idea that he’s thought about this.

“Does that work, Swan?” Killian asks, like he’s not already painfully aware of the answer.

“How much alcohol are we planning on consuming in a four-day span?”

He throws his whole head back when he laugh, body shaking with the force of it and Emma’s pulse thuds traitorously fast in her veins. Arteries? She’s not sure how biology works. “That really depends on what Liam’s news is,” Killian answers. “And whether or not Mary Margaret is going to drag us to Brooklyn on Saturday.”  
  
“She’s definitely going to drag us to Brooklyn. But, lucky for you, there’s, like, four different train options in a running distance, so we’ve got getaway routes all planned.”

“I think you’ve got getaway routes planned, love.”

“Backup,” Emma corrects. “But, just for the record, as it were, there are a bunch of bars also within jogging distance from the Botanical Gardens.”  
  
Killian quirks an eyebrow and it must be nearly two in the morning and she’s got a train to catch in...a few hours. “Why did we just switch from running to jogging? Are you suggesting that I won’t be able to hold my own in this escape we’re planning?”  
  
“You keep using that word and I don’t think we’re actually planning anything.”  
  
“I’m definitely planning several things, Swan, I don’t know where you’ve been. If I’m expected to survive this weekend then there need to be several plans outside the original plan for me to focus on and look forward to.”  
  
He doesn’t mean it the way it sounds. She knows he doesn’t.

Rationally she’s perfectly aware that the few sentences that seem to be almost hanging in the air in front of her don’t mean much more than their actual definitions, but Emma’s mind is still running a mile a minute and hyped up on adrenaline and that asshole skip and his accusations about her distinct lack of family and, so, irrationally, she starts thinking a whole slew of things she absolutely shouldn’t.

And her certainty that Killian is able to read her mind only cements itself further when he clicks his tongue and stares at her.

“Is that alright?” he asks, a cautious note in his voice that doesn’t entirely make sense with _him_ and Emma must be absolutely exhausted because she’s not sure she’s ever been this confused.

She nods slowly, dimly aware that she’s still holding a mug of half finished, ice-cold hot chocolate. “Yeah, of course,” she says far too quickly. “I mean, you know...I’m the one who called you and brought up backups and running and I’m definitely in better shape than you are, so you’re the one jogging in this scenario.”

“Rude,” Killian smiles and Emma finally puts the mug down. “And I’m glad you called, Swan. You don’t need to rationalize that. Or the backups.”  
  
“You’re really going to pay for my alcohol all weekend?”  
  
He nods like it’s the most serious thing in the world and Emma grabs a blanket off the top of the couch, burrowing into the corner. “Don’t fall asleep on your couch, Swan,” he chastises softly and she just hums, twisting until she’s actually comfortable. “You’re going to hurt your spine.”  
  
“You are not a doctor, Captain,” Emma counters. She does it mostly – _entirely_ – for the reaction and it works, Killian’s eyebrows leaping up his forehead and cheeks flushing slightly before he can actually school his features and Emma smiles into the decorative pillow that came with her couch when she bought it. “And I’m not going to fall asleep. I’m just getting comfortable. Also, you didn’t answer my question.”  
  
Killian makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, sliding down onto his back and flipping back onto his side and Emma hears the mattress shift when he props the phone up against the lamp on his nightstand. Right next to their picture. “I think I already made it fairly clear of my intentions, Swan,” he says.

It sends...something shooting through every inch of her.

“Merry Christmas,” she laughs and it doesn’t really make sense, but Killian doesn’t seem to mind. “How’d tonight go?”  
  
He smiles at her, soft and easy and just a bit closer to tired than it had been a few minutes before and he tells her about the caterer and the linens and how one of the very rich mansion-owning attendees accused another of trying to seduce their nanny. His voice gets gruffer the longer he keeps talking until Emma’s eyelids start fluttering and she barely hears him mutter _good night, love_ before she falls asleep on the couch.

It’s some kind of miracle that she makes it to the train on time – stuffing a bunch of clothes and presents into a bag and tapping Uber impatiently on her phone while chugging coffee-hot chocolate hybrid and trying not to count down the seconds – and Emma tries to fall asleep in between two other people on an overcrowded Amtrak car.

She doesn’t.

Naturally.

The train seems to creak when it comes to a stop in Penn Station, holiday music pumping through the speakers as soon as she steps onto the platform and is, immediately, hit by six different people and one very large Macy’s bag.

Emma takes a deep breath, tugging the air in through her nose and it still, somehow, smells like garbage and her phone has been painfully silent in her pocket since she woke up, just an _I don’t want to hear about the state of your back later on tonight, Swan_ that she absolutely isn’t still thinking about.

She weaves her way through the tourists and the crowd and the people who are, genuinely, just trying to get to work, practically sprinting up the escalator and cursing under her breath when another Macy’s bag-toting tourist is planted on the left side.

There’s a line forming behind her now and a distinct grumble that Emma just assumes is the general mindset of everyone in New York City, even at Christmas, but she’s only a few feet from the main floor and she’s fairly certain she can already hear Mary Margaret screaming her name.

Her phone buzzes, barely audible over the din of another crowd and Emma is concerned she’s about to dislocate her shoulder trying to grab the stupid thing.

It’s a picture and he’s probably infuriated half of Manhattan trying to take it, the angle far too awkward and his face slightly blurry, like he was walking and trying not to trip over his own feet and Emma grins in spite of either one of those things.

Or, maybe, because both of those things.

It’s blurry, but she can still make out the smile on Killian’s face and the hint of excitement in his eyes and she’s probably fooling herself, but she likes to believe it’s because he’s going to see her later.

_Are you here??_

Emma glances around to make sure that no one else is about to run into her if she stops walking, hitching her bag up her shoulder and the phone buzzes again.

_Swan, seriously, I thought we were supposed to get here at the same time._

**_You are in the wrong train station, Jones. How did you even end up on MetroNorth?_ **

_It was cheaper and I could drive to Stamford. Are you telling me you’re at Penn right now? I’m standing in line for coffee._

**Yeah. Why didn’t you tell me you switched stations? Get out of line.  
**  
_I mean, I want coffee._

Emma rolls her eyes, but the smile is still on her face and her cheeks are starting to ache a little bit. She can definitely hear Mary Margaret.

_And did I really not tell you I was coming in on the East Side? I feel like that’s something I would have told you._

**I promise, you didn’t. Good thing I’m the one planning all of these escape routes of ours all weekend. You’d end up on Staten Island or something.**

_I think you are woefully underplaying my sense of direction, Swan. I can’t believe you’re not here. I had all these plans for holding your bag and everything._

**It’s one bag. I think I can cope.**

_Gentleman._

**Idiot.**

_Well, that’s rude. Are Mary Margaret and David there yet? Did they bring a sign?_  
  
Emma opens her mouth to shoot back a retort, forgetting for half a second that she’s texting him, but that only lasts long enough for a very solid something to crash into her side and Mary Margaret is hugging her and muttering nonsense in her ear while David tries to pry her away without dropping their kid.

If Emma doesn’t have much experience with being part of a family, she, at least, has plenty of experience witnessing what a perfect family is supposed to look like because she’s been on the metaphorical sidelines of the Mary Margaret Blanchard and David Nolan romance since the very beginning.

Mary Margaret likes to claim it was fate – paired together during a first-semester freshman year science class that neither one of them really understood or cared about and Emma is quick to point out the only reason they actually started talking was because she didn’t want to fail and lose her scholarship.

It is, probably, a bit of both those things.

And it never really ended. They kept talking and taking classes together and moved off campus their junior year and David showed up and nothing really changed except, sometimes, Emma closed her door and fell asleep with her headphones stuffed in her ears and a decade later it’s, well, pretty much the same.

Mary Margaret is just as certain as ever that fate is a thing that exists and hoping is as good as doing in most situations and David could probably challenge Killian when it comes to overprotective tendencies concerning Emma and it’s almost like a family.

It feels a lot like a family when Mary Margaret is still hugging Emma tightly enough to do permanent damage to several internal organs in the middle of Penn Station.

Honestly, fuck that guy from last night.

And God bless us, everyone.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Mary Margaret shouts into Emma’s hair. Emma glances meaningfully at David and he just shakes his head in response, mumbling something that just sounds like _let it happen_ under his breath.

“Mary Margaret, you helped me pick my ticket,” Emma reasons, but it does about as much good as trying to get around tourists on escalators.

“I know, I know, I know, but it’s Christmas and you’re here and this is going to be so much fun!”  
  
“Is it?”  
  
Mary Margaret nods enthusiastically, finally pulling away enough that David can make his move and he doesn’t hug quite as tightly as his wife, but he does cup the back of Emma’s head and press a kiss against her temple and whispers _welcome home_ in ear.

Emma’s phone makes another noise – a quick succession of vibrations and buzzes and it sounds like Killian texted her the entire transcript of _The Night Before Christmas_.

Mary Margaret’s eyebrows shift at the sound, eyes flitting down towards the phone Emma’s still holding. “Everything ok?” she asks, like she absolutely doesn’t already know what’s going on.

“Of course,” Emma nods. “That’s just...well Killian and I were trying to get here at the same time, but he’s at Grand Central and it’s more festive there or something and he’s trying to take credit for it.”

Mary Margret’s eyebrows are going to get sprained, moving quickly in several different directions and David looks like he’s carved of not-quite-surprised stone. Emma rolls her eyes, hitching her bag up again and planting her feet on the floor, like she’s getting ready for a fight.

“Stop it,” Emma commands, but Mary Margaret just hums and Robbie Nolan, as painfully adorable as advertised, makes a decidedly one-year-old noise in David’s arms. “This is nothing.”  
  
Mary Margaret’s lower lip juts out slightly when she nods and Emma’s phone makes more noise. She briefly considers just throwing it on the ground, but reaches out expectantly for Robbie instead and starts making faces until she works a laugh out of him.

“It’s not,” Emma continues, not entirely sure why she’s still talking. “This is...we’re friends.”  
  
“Of course,” Mary Margaret says. David still appears to be a statue. “I know that.”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“Emma, please. Of course I do. You tell me every time both of you come to New York. Trust me, I have gotten the message. Over and out. Loud and clear. Ten hut.”  
  
“Ok, well, you didn’t need to use all of those sayings,” she smiles. Mary Margaret shrugs. “Also, I don’t think the last one actually made sense?”  
  
“It absolutely doesn’t,” David answers, shaking his head at two people who, clearly, have not grown much at all in the last decade. “We just transitioned from, like, getting telegraphs to giving marching orders.”  
  
Mary Margaret clicks her tongue. “Traitor,” she accuses and Robbie is clearly entertained by all the slightly insane adults in his laugh. Emma keeps making faces. David starts taking pictures.

“Oh my God,” Emma groans, but she can’t quite get enough frustration in her voice because this kid is absolutely adorable and wearing some kind of Christmas sweater she’s fairly certain David’s mom hand-knitted. “David, are you a photo freak now that you’ve got a kid?”  
  
“No,” he shouts at the same time Mary Margaret mumbles “absolutely” and Emma’s smile is honest and maybe just a hint emotional and possibly a little festive

Robbie yanks on her hair.

Her phone makes more noise and David chuckles under his breath, a knowing sound that Emma’s not entirely sure she appreciates, particularly when she realizes Killian is still texting her. And apparently getting update texts from David.

_I’m not going to get into the particulars of David sending me pictures of you when I’m offering up selfies on my own, Swan, but you do look good. Even after the night on the couch._

She can’t text when there’s a squirming kid in her arm intent on yanking out half her hair, but Emma can feel the smile inch across her face anyway and David is still staring at her like he’s trying to read her mind.

“Stop it,” she says and he just shrugs. “We don’t have time for whatever it is you’re doing with your face. M’s has probably come up with a very detailed schedule for the rest of our lives.”  
  
“I mean, you know, just the next couple of days,” David reasons, grabbing her bag without another word. Mary Margaret can’t even bring herself to argue. “It’s a control thing, but she’s been doing a good job of sharing those responsibilities with Elsa.”

“Color me impressed. Also, backtrack for two seconds. Elsa? Like in control of everything that’s ever happened at any point in history Elsa? God, we’re not going to have a single moment to ourselves this weekend, are we?”

“No,” David says and Emma wilts slightly. That may be because Robbie has gotten another fistful of hair. And is surprisingly strong. “Although I don’t think Elsa planned much on Saturday. That was mostly Mary Margaret and Liam.”  
  
“What? Are you serious?”

David nods slowly, like that makes it a _bigger deal_ and Emma wonders if Killian knows that. Or if Liam’s plans on Saturday night may have to do with his great, big, important news.

“That is...that’s insane, you know that?” Emma continues and David looks a little bit like a bobblehead, making significant faces in the middle of Penn Station.

“It’s all been very secretive,” he whispers and Mary Margaret groans dramatically.    
  
“This is not the festive mood we were going for,” she sighs. “Also, it is not a control thing. It is an efficiency thing and if I didn’t plan stuff then none of us would have reservations anywhere. Also, also, you guys are rude. Bah humbug or something.”  
  
Emma flashes her a grin, following when Mary Margaret directs them to another escalator and 8th Avenue and she offers to buy them all coffee at the first Starbucks they walk by.

Mary Margaret, at least, pretends not to notice when Emma texts Killian back.

**You keep bringing up the couch thing, but it’s clearly your job to make sure I get up, so mission failed, Captain.**

The rest of the day is some kind of Christmas blur full of actual, hand-written schedules and a one-year-old who’s not all that interested in the cold or the general noise of midtown Manhattan and Emma’s phone doesn’t make much noise for the next few hours.

Mary Margaret does have a schedule – and lunch at Serendipity and a walk up 5th Avenue and Emma’s fairly certain she’s got several different bruises on her legs from bags and aggressive crowds on a limited amount of sidewalk.  

It’s not really late, but Robbie is one so, anything past seven o’clock feels like the middle of the night for him and Emma’s in someone else’s uptown studio with a balcony and Central Park on the other side of the street and a bottle of wine sitting on the counter in a kitchen she’s not entirely familiar with yet.

There’s a hum to the city and it’s as festive as Mary Margaret promises it will be _all weekend, the schedule says so_ and Emma’s not sure how long she stands on the balcony, leaning in the doorway with one of those hastily packed sweaters wrapped around her.

She nearly jumps a foot in the air when the first knock comes, heart leaping into her throat and hammering against her ribs at the same time, tongue darting out to lick her lips as she tries to figure out who could possibly be standing outside someone else’s apartment door.

Emma doesn’t move at first – macabre images of tabloid headlines and far too many SVU episodes and that’s not really festive either, but whoever is knocking is yelling now and they’re yelling her name.

Or, rather, nickname.

“Swan,” Killian shouts and it sounds like he’s kicking the door now too. “If this isn’t your apartment, this is going to be really awkward.”  
  
She jogs across the tiny space, doing her best not to trip over her unzipped suitcase, swinging the door open to find Killian with one hand raised and another bottle of wine tucked into the crook of his elbow. There’s snow in his hair.

His smile does something absurd to her pulse.

Killian has always been stupidly attractive, enough that it kind of offended her when she first met him and she still almost resents it because it makes this whole _friends_ thing she’s trying to convince herself of a bit more difficult.

But, that traitorous voice adds, she’d probably still be stuck firmly in the realm of wanting even if he wasn’t so goddamn good looking, simply because he’s _him_ and he’s smiling hopefully at her and he’s always doing that.

“Hey,” Emma breathes and Killian’s smile widens, rocking back on his heels when his eyes flit across her face. “Are you a wizard?”  
  
He blinks. “Excuse me?”  
  
“How did you know where I was? Are we both just forgetting parts of conversations we actually had, because that’s kind of troubling.”  
  
“You didn’t answer your phone.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Are you going to make me stand in this freezing cold hallway for the rest of the night, love?”  
  
Emma furrows her eyebrows and she knows she’s making some kind of ridiculous face, but Killian is still standing in someone else’s doorway and staring at her like...well, staring at her and she’s having a hard time piecing together all the information she’s being presented with.

Killian chuckles, shaking the snow out of his hair and wrapping his hand around her shoulder, walking her back into the apartment and only letting go long enough to close the door behind him. His hand is ridiculously warm.

“Why is it freezing in here?” he asks, glancing around the space like he’s looking for the small snow fort.

“Oh, uh,” Emma mumbles. “I was standing outside?”  
  
“Was that a question?”  
  
“No, I was. There’s uh...well, there’s a balcony. I was...it was festive.”  
  
He glances at her over his shoulder, flashing her another smile and it seems to settle in between her ribs, some kind of personal furnace that almost makes sense in this scenario. “Ah, well, naturally,” Killian says, closing another door and it’s, instantly, ten degrees warmer. “How come you’re not answering your phone, Swan? I’d almost be offended if David didn’t promise you were ignoring him too.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why are you here? Don’t you have Jones brother things to do?”  
  
“That's beside the point and I want to be here. Elsa’s parents and sister are in town too and Liam took them to dinner to try and impress them.”  
  
“What?” Killian hums, widening his eyes and sinking onto the couch. He’s already taken his shoes off. And his jacket. “Just get comfortable, why don’t you,” Emma mutters, but that metaphorical furnace is still on fire or _whatever_ and the snow in his hair is starting to melt. “Were you for real about Liam and Elsa?”  
  
“Why would I lie about that, Swan?”  
  
She shrugs, dropping down next to him and she didn’t really calculate the space right because there’s not much of it between them, thighs brushing and Killian’s arm moves over the top of the couch, fingers tapping against fabric like he’s trying to work out some kind of excess energy.

“I don’t know,” she mutters, pointedly ignoring how easy it would be to let her head fall against his shoulder. “She didn’t mention that to me. I just figured...shouldn’t you be there?”  
  
“It’s a them thing and, uh, maybe I had ulterior motives?”  
  
“Was that a question?”  
  
“Only in an attempt to try and save face if this is actually weirder than I think it is.”

Emma laughs softly and, well, _fuck it_ , she lets her head fall to the side and it’s not like they’ve never done that before, but she’s still pleasantly surprised when Killian doesn’t flinch, just seems to settle back into someone else’s couch cushions and his fingers dance across the curve of her shoulder.

The fire in her stomach is an inferno.

“Are you stalking me, Captain?” she mumbles and she hasn’t actually had any wine, but she feels a little drunk, like all her thoughts are muddled and everything is moving in slow motion. It also might just be because he’s so goddamn warm and his fingers are distracting and she hasn’t actually seen him in person in months and the last few minutes have been kind of jarring to all of her senses.

It’s also more comfortable to just curl against his side with an arm wrapped around his stomach.

Killian doesn’t argue, at least.

“I guess from a certain perspective maybe,” Killian says, hooking his chin over the top of her head. “But, like I said, this is mostly a product of your inability to answer your phone and let me know where you are and David said you guys had wrapped up today’s itinerary already.”  
  
“Sounds a little stalker-like.”

“Maybe a little.”

Emma laughs, burrowing her head further into his shoulder and she’s fairly certain he kisses the top of her hair, but she can’t quite trust anything her mind is doing when it’s so focused on trying to document how comfortable Killian is for posterity.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers into his neck and his arm stills, tightening just a bit around her shoulders. “Did you...you really blew off Jones brother stuff to come here?”  
  
She knows the answer already, doesn’t really even know why she bothered asking the question because Killian’s not going to give her a straight response, particularly not when she’s less than twenty-four hours removed from an asshole skip who questioned her experience with families.

He surprises her.

“Yes,” Killian answers, quickly and easily and it’s the most important word Emma’s ever heard.

“Why?”  
  
He shrugs under her, but it’s more self-deprecating than dismissive. “I can meet the entire Frosset family at any other point this weekend. Plus, Union Square is a disaster right now. I’m not going to Max Brenner’s just so I can have some tourist try and share the same space as me because their tables are so close together.”  
  
“You have a questionable amount of opinions about Max Brenner’s.”  
  
“It’s just chocolate. It’s not even good chocolate! It’s overpriced, trying to be fancy chocolate.”  
  
“They have other food there,” Emma points out, but Killian just makes a contrary noise, leaning both of them forward to grab the remote off the coffee table. “You brought wine, though.”  
  
He hums, flipping through channels and letting out some kind of yelp when he realizes CBS is showing a double-feature of Rudolph and Frosty the Snowman. Emma’s probably just going to burn to death with emotional overload right there on someone else’s couch.

She hopes Airbnb has appropriate insurance for that.

“I promised to buy your alcohol all weekend, Swan,” Killian says, tightening his arm again. He doesn’t object when she hitches her legs over his until she’s mostly just a ball of Emma and sweater against his side. “That was the plan, right?”  
  
“I just didn’t realize the plan started tonight.”

Killian’s breath hitches slightly, nearly matching up to the chorus of _Island of Misfit Toys_ and Emma tries not to read too much into that. That’s way more Mary Margaret than her. There is no fate involved here. There is just a questionable amount of determination and metaphorical fire and, now, two bottles of wine on someone else’s kitchen counter.

“Is that…” Killian mutters. “Is that ok?”

She nods against his shoulder, tugging lightly on the cotton underneath her fingers and she swears she can hear him smile in response. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says again. “But I’m not getting up to get the wine.”  
  
“I would expect nothing less, love.”  
  
Killian gets up eventually, but only after Rudolph ends and it’s so goddamn endearing Emma is certain it gives Robbie Nolan a run for his painfully adorable money. They drink his bottle of wine and crack open hers, but barely make it halfway before Frosty has reformed and a slightly-drunk Emma makes sure to point out how weird _that_ is.

“The power of Christmas,” Killian entones and Emma dissolves into an immediate fit of giggles. He widens his eyes when her face presses into the crook of his neck and his fingers trace along her spine and it’s so goddamn _easy_ Emma has to bite her lip so she doesn’t make a fool of herself.  
  
“You think there’s more Christmas on Netflix?” she asks and Killian finds something called _The Nutcracker Prince_ that is both entertaining and kind of horrifying and involves a lot more creepy Uncle Drosselmeyer than she was originally anticipating.

Emma doesn’t remember getting off the couch or falling asleep, but both things must have happened because she wakes up to another alarm and a note on someone else’s nightstand with two packs of hand warmers on top.

_You owe me coffee because I’m fairly certain I’ve been scarred for life by that monstrosity of a movie and I have a lot of questions about the rat hierarchy that are still unanswered. I will, however, only discuss them when properly caffeinated._

She smiles when she swings her feet over the side of the bed, humming Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies when she turns on someone else’s coffee maker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! So...a little over a month ago I reached a follower milestone and my husband pulled a user name out of a fez and @peggyyswan won and asked for a Christmas-type, friends to lovers story and because of who I am as a person, this is very long. 
> 
> We'll update on Tuesday and Friday for two more weeks and there will lots of banter. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

“Ok, but this is actually kind of creepy.”  
  
“I don’t think you’re supposed to acknowledge that. It’s breaking Christmas-dad rules or something.”  
  
David shoots her a look, something bordering close to a glare, but Emma assumes it’s difficult to get too angry when there’s a questionably adorable kid in your arms and a festive schedule that they are sticking to.

On pain of death.

That’s not very festive.

“I don’t like the way they kept jerking when they move,” David mumbles, nodding in the direction of the closest animatronic elf. “It looks like it wants to stage a North Pole revolt.”

Mary Margaret clicks her tongue in reproach before reaching out to mumble a few words at the painfully adorable kid David’s been holding since they got into line. That might have been several days before. It, at least, feels like it.  

“Why are there so many people here, though? Don’t they have other things to do?” Emma asks and it’s not the first time she’s mumbled those words in that exact same order and David really does glare at that, but it’s more a warning than any kind of actual disapproval.

They’ve been standing in line forever.

And there’s a kid crying somewhere and it all kind of just smells like plastic and fake snow and Emma didn’t realize fake snow could have such a distinct smell until she was standing next to it for, what felt like, several days in the back corner of Macy’s.

Killian laughs or, at least, laughs and tries to turn it into a sound that doesn’t immediately resemble laughter and it works as well as David trying to sound like he’s not totally freaked out by the animatronic elf they’re still standing next to.

This line is never going to move.

There are too many kids and not enough Santa and that’s a sentence Emma never imagined herself thinking, but it’s this weekend and things are, apparently, festive and there’s a detailed schedule to follow to make sure they accomplish everything they’re supposed to.

Emma briefly considered asking Mary Margaret if she’d factored in the woeful incompetence of the MTA into her schedule that morning, because everything was timed just a bit too perfectly to work, but thought better of it when she realized she was, absolutely, the only one who wasn’t excited about the schedule.

Bah humbug.

Or something.

Even Killian looked  _ready_ or _festive_ or some other more appropriate adjective, grinning when Emma and the incredibly adorable Nolan family arrived in Herald Square at, exactly, eleven o’clock in the morning.

She brought him coffee.

And he smiled at her and made faces at Robbie and then tried to get David to stop holding his own kid for two seconds so he could make faces closer up and Mary Margaret kept taking pictures. And Emma is fairly convinced her heart hasn’t stopped hammering in her chest since.

She’s having a hard time breathing.

That may be the fake snow smell.

It smells absolutely awful in the back corner of the eighth floor of Macy’s.

David is still talking, making jokes and trying to entertain a one-year-old and ask Liam about...something that Emma is absolutely not listening to because she’s far too focused on trying to remember what an appropriate number of heartbeats per minute is for the average, adult woman in relatively good shape.

It probably isn’t whatever her heart is doing.

“Swan,” Killian mutters and Emma’s neck nearly snaps when she jerks her head up, staring wide at him and he smiles in response.

God damn.

He blinks once and tilts his head and Emma can feel someone staring at her, but she doesn’t actually stop looking at Killian because she knows it’s Liam or Mary Margaret and she doesn’t really want to deal with either of them.

The animatronic elf next to them is creaking. Like he needs oil or something and that seems kind of like an antiquated idea, but Emma’s far too busy falling down some sort of rabbit hole of thoughts about Killian and whatever his mouth does when he looks at her, the ends quirking up and something flashing in their gaze and they are _friends_.

She doesn’t want to kiss him as much as she absolutely does.

She doesn’t think….no. Rabbit holes. And that’s not even the right holiday. Or even a holiday. That’s a literary reference.

She’s lost her mind.

“I can hear you thinking, love,” Killian continues, taking a step into her space, which is almost impressive because there wasn’t really much to begin with. They’ve got them packed in like festive sardines in the back corner of the eighth floor of Macy’s.

_Festive. Sardines_.

“I’m fine,” Emma sputters and she’s certain someone scoffs. It’s probably Liam.

Killian doesn’t believe her for a second. She knows it. He knows she knows it and the circle goes on forever or something because he’s always known, has always been able to _read_ her like some kind of particularly interesting book he’s desperate to find out the ending to.

She must have gotten more sleep than she realized – she’s on some kind of metaphor roll.

“You’re really awful at that,” he laughs. Killian hums in the back of his throat, rocking towards her and it doesn’t feel like a conscious thing, it feels like magnets or want or something impossible and Emma wouldn’t have been surprised if the animatronic elf came to life next to them and just started listing out all the reasons this was and is and always will be insane.

Liam is still staring at her.

And that might be part of the problem.

Emma never really knows where she stands with Liam Jones.

It’s disconcerting. And troubling. And just kind of awkward and uncomfortable and it always feels like she’s staging some sort of battle with the elder Jones as to who cares more about the younger Jones.

Emma’s fairly certain it’s a tie.

Because she….well, she _cares_ about Killian in the kind of way she never really believed she could care about anyone and has forever, since the very first string of text messages, but Liam has been there, well, even longer than forever.

* * *

“He’s an overprotective ass is what he is,” Killian says the first time Emma asks about it, a few months into the text message friendship and she still hasn’t asked about what happened at the wedding or why he left or if he wanted to leave. And some part of her is just a bit desperate to ask, but, well, she woke up alone and she’s used to that and she figures Killian has his reasons.

She’s got other questions to worry about anyway.

They’re FaceTiming and Emma’s not sure when that started, only that it has and she’s happy about it and she can just make out the lights from the street through his window downtown.

“See, you keep saying that, but you’re not explaining why,” Emma grins and Killian’s eyes flash, a look she’s starting to become more and more familiar with every time she mentions Liam and the boats, _ships_ , and whatever kind of numbers they’re pulling that summer.

Killian huffs, but it’s not frustration, it’s something else that Emma’s also familiar with – some kind of deep rooted sense to _prove_ and _be_ and she tries not to blink. She tries to keep smiling.

He tells her.

And it takes hours. She has to plug her phone in at some point, but Killian just keeps talking and Emma keeps listening and she understands a bit more after that.

He tells her about growing up, some apartment in the Bronx with a lock that never seemed to actually work, and a dad that _never_ worked and, eventually, just walked out and their mom did their best, but New York is expensive, even with a five-story walk-up and Killian’s eyelashes flutter when he gets to _sick_ and _a few months_ and Liam planned the funeral.

“He was eighteen,” Killian mumbles. “And just enlisted and he couldn’t stay. He planned the funeral and got me out of the walk-up and then he went back to the water and sent checks. He couldn’t take care of a ten-year-old.”

Emma knows he wanted to.

“So, I bounced around awhile,” Killian explains. “And there were houses and some families and other families that were just masquerading as such and Liam kept sending checks and letters and pictures from every ship he served on and as soon as I was eighteen I signed up. I didn’t know what else to do.”

He tells her about it all, the ships and the places and the cities and Emma has some wildly inappropriate thought about Killian Jones in dress whites, but that only last as long as his quick smile when he mutters _and then it all ended_.

Emma’s whole body tenses and she knows her eyebrows shoot up her forehead, but he’s still smiling at her, even if it’s slightly off somehow. “What?” she whispers and the word seems to get stuck in her throat.

He holds up his hand, twisting his wrist like he was showing off the piece of plastic and the smile turns vaguely sardonic. Emma tries not to sigh too loudly, but she knows it doesn’t work as soon as Killian’s eyes dart towards hers and his shoulders sag slightly.

It was an accident.

That’s the official report, but Killian is quick to tell Emma _it was my fault_ and she can’t even open her mouth to argue before he’s talking again. “It was,” he says. “Idiotic. Trying to do something I shouldn’t have when there was a storm coming and Liam...he followed me. He’s the only reason I’m still alive.”  
  
Emma’s eyes widen and her mouth goes dry and it feels like her heart has turned to stone because it feels like there’s a stone the size of several mountains sitting in the pit of her stomach. Killian keeps talking – about investigations and inquiries and discharge and Liam left as soon as it was _allowed_ , whatever that means, and the brothers Jones came back to New York and had to figure out what the hell to do next.

They started the tour company a few months later, something with Liam’s pension and a ridiculous amount of savings because Emma’s not entirely unconvinced Killian isn’t actually a secret hoarder, and the first ship is an unqualified success.

They sail and make money and that was two years ago and there’s still more.

Killian hasn’t actually sailed a boat, _ship_ , since the accident – keeps track of the books and the numbers instead, with his feet firmly planted on the ground, and Emma can hear the way his voice picks up when he starts talking about the success they’ve had, but there’s something just on the edge of it too.

He misses it.

And she knows it.

He knows she knows it.

“But I almost fucked that up too,” Killian adds, voice dropping low and it’s not what Emma expects. She narrows her eyes and wishes, for the first time in a very long time, that she was in New York if only to try and make sure that furrow in between his eyebrows doesn’t stay there for the rest of time.

He met Milah two years after the accident and it changed everything, flipped the whole world upside down, or so Killian tells her, and it’s like everything gets easier and more difficult all at the same time.

She’d never been to New York, never been out of some middle-of-nowhere town with, probably, one stop light and it was like some kind of gift from the universe to be able to share all of that again with someone who wanted all of that again.

Or so Killian tells Emma.

And it was good for awhile, _months_ , and Liam had no idea, didn’t know what his brother was doing when he wasn’t crunching numbers, but it works until Killian found out that Milah was still, technically, married.

“I honestly didn’t care,” Killian admits and it’s difficult to hold her phone while it’s plugged in. “Not at first at least. She was out of that town and nothing could happen and nothing was going to happen.”  
  
He spits out the last few words like they’re poison and Emma wishes her eyebrows would stop reacting before she can because she’s honestly giving herself a headache. “Was?” Emma asks and Killian hums, nodding with closed eyes and the kind of disappointment she can feel in Boston.

“Was.”

Another accident and a car ignoring those right on red rules in the city and she was dead and it was over and Killian still hadn’t actually gotten on the ship when it was docked.

The money started going missing two months later.

And, finally, he told Liam.

“I think he kind of hated me for a few hours,” Killian laughs. It sounds hollow though and Emma’s arm has gone numb from holding her phone. She doesn’t move. “He kept staring at me like he’d never seen me before. Told me I was an idiot and he must have walked to goddamn Washington Heights because he was gone for the better part of the day before he came back and just took over. He’s very good at that.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Emma says and Killian looks like it’s the last thing he expected to hear. He blinks once, pressing his lips together and that little furrow between his eyebrows all but disappears. “He...he couldn't do that....even if….”  
  
“If I thought a spree of thefts and grand larceny across tourists traps on South Street Seaport had something to do with me and Milah and a husband that still existed somewhere in the world?”

Emma nods. “Yeah, exactly that. And you got that money back. Or, well, most of it.”

“That’s because the NYPD likes feel-good stories around Christmas. Gives them something positive to leak to the tabs.”  
  
“That’s awfully dismal.”

Killian shrugs again, but there’s a lightness to it that wasn’t there before and Emma likes to imagine it’s because he’s talking to her. She likes talking to him. “Maybe,” he admits. “You, uh...thank you, Swan.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“It’s a fairly dismal tale.”  
  
“No, it’s not,” Emma disagrees and Killian quirks an eyebrow at her. She bits her lips and weighs her options and, well, _fuck it_. Friends talk. “It’s…well, it’s kind of understandable.”

“What is?”  
  
She tells him.

Everything.

Houses and homes and a distinct lack of family and every absolutely fucked up thing that happened with Neal when they were juniors in college and how Mary Margaret and David were there to pick of the pieces of a heart that just wanted to believe in something.

He doesn’t tell her to stop or even interrupt to ask questions. He just lets her talk and explain and there’s a questionable amount of even footing between the two of them.

She glances up at him when she’s done, tied up her own dismal tale with a nice, metaphorical bow, and Emma fully expects to see pity or disappointment or something that seemed to be on every single social worker’s face when she was a kid.

She doesn’t see any of that.  
  
Killian just keeps staring at her like he always has, even when she was shivering in the back corner of a very expensive, very crowded wedding reception – like she’s caught him by surprise and he’s happy to be discovered.

“We make quite a team, don’t we, Swan?” Killian asks, smile on his face and eyes staring at her, several hundred miles apart.

She nods again. “Yeah.”

They go from there – metaphorical cards laid out on metaphorical tables and it seems to catch Emma by surprise, the way Killian’s just managed to work his way into every single corner of her life until it starts to feel weird when she _doesn’t_ text during a stakeout or he doesn’t tell her about some over-the-top event he’s booked and he gets adorably flustered if she doesn’t call as soon as she gets home when he knows she’s picking up a skip.

He worries.

And Emma cares.

They go on like that for months, easy and simple and it starts to become meaningful in a way she didn’t expect, but can’t quite stop and, suddenly, Killian Jones is as important as David and Mary Margaret and it’s an easy choice to make when the guy she’s dating tells her _me or him_ like some kind of cheesy 1980s romcom.

Walsh blinks like he’s stunned to be on the losing end of that argument, but Emma just pushes away from the table in the restaurant and marches back home and she’s not really _crying_ , she’s just so goddamn frustrated and she’s fairly certain Killian has an event when her thumb nearly slams on his name in her phone.

It takes two rings to answer.  
  
“Hey,” he breathes and there’s definitely event because she can hear music in the background.

“Ah, shit,” Emma mutters, drawing a laugh out of Killian almost immediately. That feels like cheating. She wishes she were in New York. She wishes Killian were in Boston.

She wishes she hadn’t spent the last four months dating Walsh.

“Swan,” Killian chuckles and they don’t even need to FaceTime anymore because she can picture him almost perfectly that feels like cheating too. “What’s going on, love?”  
  
“You’re busy.”  
  
“Yes, that’s not an answer.”

“I can call back later,” Emma sputters, nearly tripping over her own feet when she kicks her heels off, one of them crashing into the wall. “Ah, God, fucking…”  
  
“Swan,” Killian repeats and he’s not even trying to hide his laughter anymore. She hears a door click shut and she’s never been on the boat, but she knows there’s probably cabins or _something_ and Emma finds herself frozen in the middle of her kitchen before she can even consider taking another step. “Stop cursing at your wall for two seconds and tell me what’s going on.”

She barely even has time to consider that he just _knows_ that before she’s barreling through explanations and frustrations and this is probably more Mary Margaret territory than Killian, but she hadn’t really thought of that either and he doesn’t interrupt her.

He never does.

“What an ass,” Killian mutters when Emma finishes, conveniently leaving out whatever choice she’d been dealt. She tells him Walsh wanted her to move in.

“Yeah, well…” She shrugs, sliding down cabinets and stretching her legs out in front of her. She’s got a headache.

“What are you doing right now?”

“What?”  
  
“Exactly what those words mean, Swan.”  
  
“I’m sitting on my kitchen floor.”

He must blink because he doesn’t answer immediately and Emma tries not to actually growl at her phone. “Come here,” Killian says eventually and, at first, she’s convinced she’s misheard him.

“What?” Emma echoes and he laughs, that knowing _understanding_ sound he makes whenever she says exactly what he expects her to.

“Come here,” he repeats. “It’s Thursday. It’s not that late. Tell August you’re sick.”  
  
Emma shakes her head slowly, wincing when she twists the wrong way and the music in New York suddenly sounds very loud. “You want me to...what blow off work?”  
  
“That sounds childish, Swan,” he chastises and he’s still smiling, she’s sure of it. “I want you to play hookie. There’s a difference.”  
  
“Ah, of course.”  
  
He’s silent again, like he’s waiting for her to tell him _no, I can’t take time off because I have a job and a life and_ …the excuse seems to die on the tip of her tongue because she wants and it’s only eight o’clock. She can get to New York by midnight if she doesn’t hit traffic.

She’ll probably hit traffic.

“What time will you be home?” Emma asks.

Killian’s breath catches. “Whenever you get here.”

“That’s not very specific, sailor.”  
  
It works another laugh out of him and she can hear him walking, pacing in whatever tiny room he’s found himself in and Emma’s not sure this is real, but she’s smiling and standing up and trying to remember where her luggage is.

“Just call me when you get to the Triboro and I’ll leave. There are people here who can take care of clean-up.”

“Ok.”

She hits traffic on I-95 because Emma’s fairly certain that stupid road is crowded no matter what time of night it is, but it’s only a little after midnight when she finds herself driving downtown, following directions to an address Killian sent her hours ago, and she suddenly realizes it’s the first time she’s ever been to his apartment.

He buzzes her up after she parks in some garage around the block that costs a metaphorical arm and a leg  and Emma taps her foot impatiently in the elevator. There’s food – a ridiculous amount of it spread across a kitchen countertop and a tiny fold-up table and she’s barely taken a step in the door before he’s tugging the bag out of her hands and hugging her so tightly she’s only slightly worried she’ll crack under the force of it.

She doesn’t.

Emma just burrows her head against his neck and wraps her arms around his waist and they stand there for minutes or hours or days.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Swan,” Killian murmurs, mostly into her hair and she smiles against his shirt. They fall asleep on the couch, her head still on his shoulder and his arm around her waist and it’s the best Emma’s slept....ever.

She doesn’t tell Mary Margaret or David she’s there and Killian doesn’t tell Liam. They just...exist in their own little bubble and it’s as easy and simple as anything else they’ve done until Emma asks if she can see the boat.  
  
“Ship, love,” Killian corrects immediately, but his shoulders have gone tense and he’s standing a little straighter all of the sudden. “Why?”  
  
“Why is it called a ship? Shouldn’t you know that?” He levels her with a stare and Emma grins in response, reaching out to tug on the front of his shirt. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she adds. “I just…”  
  
“You just?”  
  
“You’re proud of it. I’d like to see.”

He takes her – a few blocks east and it smells like salt, a strange counterbalance to _summer in New York_ and _garbage_ and _tourists_ and his eyes seem to get brighter when he turns her towards a dock and an actual goddamn ship floating in the water.

“Whoa,” Emma breathes and it’s not exactly the response she was planning on, but she’s not entirely opposed to it when Killian grins at her.

“Yeah?” he asks. She nods, moving again and she only realizes she’s grabbed his left hand when she hears his breathing stutter slightly. She doesn’t let go. “You want to...we don’t have to just stand here, Swan.”  
  
Emma glances at him, smile tugging at the corners of her mouth and he still looks nervous, but she just rests her free hand flat against his chest and she almost feels Killian calm. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”  
  
He scoffs, but his eyes flutter shut and for half a moment she actually she thinks he’s going to kiss her right there, a few feet away from the goddamn ship. ”I’m not actually the Captain, love,” he corrects, tracing his thumb against the curve of her jaw.

“Not yet.”  
  
They spend the rest of the afternoon on the ship and he explains it all – the tours and the events and Emma is a rapt audience, even when it gets dark and the tourists lessen and it’s almost quiet. They sit on the deck, backs against the railing and eyes skyward and it’s impossible to see stars in Manhattan, but they try anyway, Killian’s voice in her ear when Emma starts asking about constellations and plotting courses.

He offers to sleep on the couch later, but Emma’s exhausted and she keeps thinking about stars and maps and _sentiment_ and she tells him _nah, just come to bed_ before she really considers the implications of any of it.

Killian doesn’t argue.

And, two weeks later, when Emma’s sitting in her car with a blanket she may have stolen out of Killian’s apartment wrapped around her shoulders, her phone rings. He took the boat out, stood on deck when there was no anchor involved and Liam’s already talking about _how many more tours we can do now that there are two of us again_ and Emma’s knuckles are white gripping the blanket.

“Thank you, Emma,” Killian whispers. She calls him five hours later when she’s caught her skip.

* * *

Emma’s all but convinced Liam knows something after that.

She’s not entirely sure what _it_ is, since she’s not really sure herself, but Emma’s positive it’s something and it seems to change everything. And it doesn’t help that Emma always seems to find herself the odd one out in these little family gatherings they seem to stage on major holidays and birthdays.

Killian does his best, makes sure to stand next to her and his hand is never far from hers, fingers brushing over the back of her shoulders or the curve of her wrist and Emma _knows_ Liam picks up on that too, eyes always going slightly wider when he realizes what exactly is happening between her and his brother.

Or, rather, whatever isn’t happening. Because they’re friends.

Absolutely. One-hundred percent certain. For _sure_.

And, so maybe Emma took things into her own hands during some kind of Fourth of July extravaganza a year and a half ago because she was kind of tired of Liam’s furtive glances and brought Elsa with her to New York because she wanted a friend that she didn’t want to make out with.

All of that, however, has blown up in her face and the world is one giant joke because it took approximately two seconds for Elsa and Liam to look at each other and immediately decide they were going to be in love.

Or whatever.

It doesn’t matter. It’s Mary Margaret and David levels of _romantic_ and Emma’s got a pretty good idea of what’s going to happen when they end up at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens later that night.

After they go see the Radio City Christmas Spectacular.

This schedule is insane.

“Emma.”  
  
She snaps her head up, wincing when it audibly cracks and the line has started moving again, David three feet in front of her with a incredulous look on his face. Killian’s still standing next to her. She can feel his hand on her back.

“Swan,” Killian mutters, tapping his fingers lightly on her coat and she doesn’t remember turning around to face him. He doesn’t move his hand though and that just leads to his arm wrapped around her waist and she’s basically standing on his shoes at this point, palms flat on his chest to try and make room for her arms. “There are photos to take, love.”  
  
Emma nods numbly, but she doesn’t actually move and that kid from before starts crying again. It’s probably a different kid. God, there are so many kids. And so much fake snow.

“What do you think Macy’s does with all of this stuff when it’s not Christmas?” Emma asks and Killian laughs like he was expecting a ridiculous question.  
  
“I’d imagine there’s a lot of storage and New Jersey.”  
  
“New Jersey?”  
  
He still hasn’t moved his hands. “I’m just assuming there’s more space in New Jersey for giant crates of terrifying elves.”  
  
“They’re really freaky, aren’t they?”  
  
“You are an ocean of appropriate adjectives, love.”  
  
“I can’t believe you just made an ocean joke in the middle of this hell line we’re stuck in forever.”  
  
He laughs again, smile wide and his right hand tightens on her coat, like he’s trying to keep her there. Perpetually. Or forever. Or something. “It’s that fake snow smell,” Killian reasons. “It’s definitely going to my head.”  
  
“It smells awful, right?”  
  
“That may also just be the sea of festive humanity around us, but I’m leaning more towards the fake snow.”  
  
“Two water puns in one conversation,” Emma mutters. He just smiles wider. David’s still shouting for them. “That’s almost impressive.”  
  
“You wound me, Swan. Those were clever and made sense.”  
  
She scoffs, but it comes out more like a sigh and Liam is probably staring at them still, trying to figure out the mystery of whatever it is Killian and Emma are. “You’re right,” she admits and they’ve started walking. At least Killian has – Emma just sort of stumbles backwards, gripping the lapels of his jacket while she tries to keep his balance.

He seems to take that as some kind of personal challenge, hands drifting away from her back to her hips and they were much closer to the end of the line than Emma realized because, suddenly, they’re not walking and Killian’s eyebrows pull low.

“Why are you doing that face thing?” Emma asks. She hasn’t let go of his jacket. She’s still backwards and some teenager dressed in an elf costume is asking them questions. “Killian,” she continues, tugging lightly when he doesn’t answer immediately and she’s glad she hasn’t let go when he looks at her, all wide eyes and something that feels a hell of a lot like adjectives she’s still determined to ignore.

“If you just want to wait two minutes, you guys can go through door number four,” the Christmas elf is saying.

“What the hell is she talking about?” Emma asks, not doing a very good job of keeping her voice low because some put-upon parent who’s waited, approximately, fourteen hours for their kid to meet Santa clicks their tongue reproachfully.

“We have to wait,” Killian says and that doesn’t explain anything at all.

Emma glances around, twisting to look over her shoulder instead of turning around like a _normal_ person and they’re alone. The Christmas elf shoots her an encouraging smile, like it’s perfectly normal for two grown adults to be standing in line in the back corner of the eighth floor of Macy’s on a Saturday afternoon. “Oh, shit,” Emma breathes and Killian laughs under his breath. “Did they totally just leave us here?”  
  
He shrugs. “I guess we didn’t walk fast enough.”  
  
“I was going backwards.”  
  
“You definitely could have turned around.”  
  
Emma hums in agreement, but it’s difficult to come up with words when it feels like her stomach and several other internal organs are trying to twist themselves into knots. “You want to go get coffee or something?” he asks.

The Christmas Elf suddenly looks a little nervous.

“What?” Emma blinks, curious if she can do permanent damage to metaphorically twisting organs. “I thought we were in line.”

“Well, yeah, we are, but I don’t think that’s a binding contract. And there are, like, twenty-six Starbucks in this store. Right?”

He glances at the Christmas Elf who, now, looks a little taken aback to be involved in the conversation and Emma feels like she’s suffering from whiplash. “Uh,” Christmas Elf stammers. “I only think there are eight and none on this floor.”  
  
“See, Swan,” Killian says, twisting around her and moving his hand away from her back to lace his fingers through hers. “We can stop suffering from fake-snow induced headaches.”  
  
“Oh, those are the worst,” Christmas Elf commiserates. “You know they have to cycle that stuff out because all the kids play with it every day.”

It’s, easily, the strangest conversation Emma’s ever been part of and she’s not entirely convinced she’s still part of it until Killian’ squeezes her hand. “What do you say, Swan?” he asks, nodding toward an EXIT sign that takes away from this whole North Pole theme they’ve got going on in the back corner of Macy’s.

She doesn’t answer immediately and she can see him wavering, thumb tracing out a slow semicircle on her palm. “Or,” Emma starts. “We could...be festive?”  
  
“That was a question,” Killian points out. The Christmas Elf is trying to get a family of, what sounds like, seventy-thousand kids around them and meeting with Santa while Emma and Killian stage some sort of moment. Emma almost feels bad.

“Yeah, it was,” she agrees.

He practically beams at her. “Yeah, ok,” he says, tugging on her hand lightly and the Christmas Elf shouts _door four_ at the back of their heads.

It’s not really a door – more a curtain and there are more teenagers dressed like elves behind it and Emma realizes suddenly that there’s more than one goddamn Santa Claus in the back corner of Macy’s. “Oh, that’s kind of disappointing,” she mutters and Killian just wraps an arm around her shoulder and tugs her flush against his side until she can feel him kiss the top of her head.

Santa is waving at them.

“Festively efficient,” he whispers and the elves are already trying to get them to sit down and asking if they want to take pictures on their phones in addition to buying some overpriced package. “C’mon, love.”  
  
There was never really much room for _belief_ in foster houses with a distinct lack of consistent heating and kids who’d rather punch you in the face than see you open a Christmas present, but Emma’s always had this hope that maybe, eventually she’d get there and standing behind door four with Santa still waving at her and Killian’s arm still wrapped around her, there’s a part of her that feels like she already has.

It’s a weird feeling to arrive at when there’s a Christmas elf trying to direct them and Santa’s asking questions and Emma should probably stop referring to him as Santa in her head.

One of the elves tries to get them to sit on either side of Santa, but Killian doesn’t let go of her – or Emma doesn’t let go of Killian. It doesn’t really matter. He sits down and, suddenly, she’s sitting on his legs and there’s an arm wrapped her middle and it shouldn’t be nearly as comfortable as it is.

It shouldn’t be nearly as _comforting_ as it is.

They smile for the camera and Emma’s phone and actually stage a conversation with Santa like that’s not weird at all and when asked _what she’d like for Christmas_ , Killian’s arm tightens around her waist and Emma just whispers _I’m good_.

She’s too busy replacing her lock screen picture to notice that Killian buys an overpriced photo package.

Mary Margaret’s only slightly frustrated that they’ve deviated from the schedule, but Elsa offers to buy them all coffee before they hail cabs to Radio City and, somehow, that makes it all better.

Emma’s never actually been inside Radio City, let alone watched the Christmas Spectacular, and her only knowledge of the show is a dim recollection of a house somewhere in the midwest that made them all sit and watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade together.

The Rockettes kickline’d. Emma remembers being impressed.

“Are there Rockettes involved in this?” Emma asks, nudging her shoulder into Killian’s side and no one told them to sit next to each other, but they’re on some sort of island together during these family moments.

“I think the Rockettes are the star of the show, Swan.”  
  
“For real?”  
  
“Unless the marquee was lying to me when we walked in.”  
  
“Diabolical of the marquee.”  
  
David _shushes_ them, like they’re grown-up versions of Robbie he needs to discipline and Robbie is better behaved than both of them. Emma sticks her tongue out, shifting in her seat and trying to cross her legs without actually kicking Killian.

It doesn’t really work and he hogs the armrest in retaliation, leaning closer to her and Liam’s probably rolling his eyes.

“Control your limbs, Swan,” Killian mutters as the house lights go down and the audience starts to applaud an empty stage. She sticks her tongue out again and she can just barely make out the quirk of his lips, eyes staring ahead and Emma sits up straighter. He’s definitely smiling now, but he hasn’t actually moved his arm and Emma can’t really be blamed for what she does next.

She lets her hand fall on top of his, well aware he can’t really feel it and it doesn’t seem to matter one way or another because his eyes still get bigger. “Swan,” he whispers, but the show’s started and David will probably murder them if they get kicked out of Radio City.

“Watch the show, Captain,” Emma mutters and he just nods in response.

The show, it seemed, was barely an hour and a half long and Emma would have been frustrated by that if it weren’t for the actual _live animals_ they brought in and if it didn’t seem like both David and Killian had decided to make it their life goal to complain about it for the rest of the night.

Mary Margaret sighs no less than thirty-six times on the way to Brooklyn.

“You’ve got to relax,” Emma mutters, standing next to Killian in front of a flower display she’s assuming is supposed to look like snowflakes. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He chuckles softly, slinging an arm around her shoulders and Emma wonders if he realizes how much he keeps touching her. It’s a lot. He’s doing it a lot. More than usual. And the usual is a lot. “I feel like I’m counting down to something,” Killian admits, resting his cheek on the side of her head. “I’m sorry, love.”  
  
“What for?”  
  
“Complaining like it’s the end of the world. I just...he’s going to ask her to marry him.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.” Killian stares at her, eyebrows pulled low in confusion and Emma shrugs. “Just a guess. Neither you nor your brother are very good at hiding what you’re thinking you know.”  
  
Killian blanches slightly, lips parting like he’s going to respond before he thinks better of it. There are Christmas carols playing. “Seriously?” she continues and he tilts his head in confusion. "The face thing, still? What’s going on with you?”

He licks his lips and leans forward, kissing her hairline again and that kind of feels like an answer. “Nothing, Swan,” Killian promises and it’s the biggest lie Emma’s ever heard. “I’m fine.”

He’s not.

If she didn’t know before, it takes one dinner, one proposal and Killian nearly squeezing the life force out of her hand under the table for Emma to realize how _not_ fine he actually is.

Mary Margaret cries and David has to take over photography duty, snapping photos of Elsa and Liam together and a ring that seems to reflect light and Killian doesn’t let go of Emma’s hand. He mutters _congratulations_ and smiles at Elsa and Liam’s far too excited, and probably far too relieved, to even notice whatever it is his brother is doing, but Emma does and she tries to swallow back the large wave of questions she feel knocking against her brain.

They stay for dessert and Emma orders wine and keeps trying to push glasses of water Killian’s direction. He doesn’t take them.

He, finally, lets go of her hand to down not-so-small gulps of rum and it all starts to get a bit fuzzy by the time Mary Margaret’s schedule dictates it’s time to leave.

Killian flips his wrist again and Emma tries to ignore the movement of his throat and his jaw, but she’s had, like, four glasses of wine already and they’ve fallen out of festive and into heart-wrenchingly romantic so quickly she’s worried she’s actually going to start stomping her feet in protest.

He mumbles something that might be _congratulations_ again and Emma can’t worry about stomping her feet when she can barely stay upright on them, tugged against Killian’s side as soon as he stands up. Liam’s eyes widen slightly at that, but he doesn’t actually say anything and Emma wraps an arm around Killian’s waist before she can think better of it.

“You guys want to go somewhere else?” Elsa asks and Emma knows she’s only doing it to be nice because Elsa is nice and she’s happy and she deserves this and Emma just wants to make out with her best friend.

At Christmas. In New York.

“Uh, nah,” Emma says quickly, racking her brain for an excuse that doesn’t make her look like the worst human alive. “I’m just...uh...tired. Didn’t sleep great last night.”

Liam’s eyes widen again and Emma doesn’t think she imagines him glance towards Mary Margaret. She _definitely_ doesn’t imagine Mary Margaret’s answering shrug.

“Oh my God,” Killian mumbles. David starts mumbling nonsense to Robbie – probably so he won’t start laughing. “Go home, Liam.”  
  
Liam doesn’t move. “But, you said…”  
  
“I said I had stuff to do last night and I couldn’t sit at an overcrowded table in a tourist trap. That was it. Go home. I’ll be back later.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Later.”

“C’mon, Liam,” Elsa says, tugging on his shirtsleeve for emphasis before flashing Emma a supportive smile. “It’s probably better if Killian makes sure Emma gets back to her hotel anyway.”

“Oh my God,” Killian repeats. David doesn’t even try to mask his laughter at that.

Elsa grins conspiratorially and kicks at Killian’s ankle. “Serves you right for bad-mouthing Max Brenner’s like that. Anna wanted to go Serendipity at first.”  
  
“Jeez.”  
  
“Exactly,” she says, shrugging into her coat. She pushes up on her tiptoes to kiss Killian’s cheek and Emma can just make out her mouth moving when she whispers something in his ear. “Got it?”  
  
Killian uses his free hand to salute, but there’s a hint of a blush in his cheeks that probably isn’t from the rum. “Aye, aye ma’am,” he grins and Elsa rolls her eyes.

“You want to get drunk?” Emma asks as soon as everyone else is out of earshot.

He nods before she even finishes the question. “Unequivocally.”

It really is unfair, she thinks, several drinks later. All of it. Just absolutely, completely unfair.

She’s on the edge of drunk and _belligerent_ , toeing the line with as much grace as she can muster and, honestly, it’s not really much. Her limbs feel oddly numb, like there’s this buzzing under her skin or maybe inching its way through her veins and it’s warm and comfortable and she’s lost track of the metaphor.

Killian is slumped in the booth they’ve commandeered as their own, fingers toying with the ends of her hair, and Emma can’t do much more than try and make sure she’s getting enough oxygen to her brain. She’s not sure it’s working.

“Are you mumbling words under your breath, love?” he asks, but it’s more just a slur of syllables and Emma lets out a sound that’s probably just defined as _drunk_.

She shakes her head. “I’m quoting.”  
  
“The show?” Killian nods towards one of the TVs mounted on the wall of the bar and Emma didn’t really have a plan when they left the restaurant, but she came here one time with Mary Margaret because Mary Margaret is a secret British TV fan and well...it was a lot to explain when she just wanted to get drunk and breathe.

“Yeah, uh, it’s Doctor Who. That’s...well, don’t let anyone else in this bar hear you say that it’s just a show.”  
  
Killian narrows his eyes and it might be the most absurdly attractive thing Emma’s ever seen, but that’s until he sits up and stares at her so intently she wonders if he’d just been pretending to drink all that rum. “Why do you know the words to an episode of Doctor Who?” He glances around again and Emma bits back a smile when she realizes it’s suddenly hit them as to where they are. “Are we...Swan, did you take me to a themed bar?”  
  
“Technically, yes, but also, it’s definitely M’s fault because this is her obsession. And the drinks are really good.”  
  
“They are really good.”  
  
“See.”  
  
“I’m not disagreeing with you, love, I’m just curious why you’re avoiding the question.”

Emma blinks and her whole body seems to freeze when he moves his fingers away from her hair to trace across the back of her neck and the curve of her jaw and whatever he’s doing with his thumb should be criminal.

“Breathe, love,” Killian mutters. She doesn’t. And she’s not sure when he moved or she moved, but they’re definitely closer than they were before, her thigh pressed against his when he twists to look at her.

_Like she’s the star at the top of the goddamn tree in Rockefeller Center_.

“I’m not avoiding,” Emma argues. Killian’s lips shift. “I am...trying to save face.”  
  
He grins at her, slow, like it’s inching across his face or settling in the middle of her soul or something equally ridiculous that’s probably influenced by the questionable amount of tequila in a drink called Gallifrey Sunrise. “That’s not something you have to worry about, Swan,” he says softly and she swears she can feel that too.

“Mary Margaret tried to get me to watch the reboot seasons with her when I went home with her one Christmas, but I couldn’t really get into it, so we tried to watch the Christmas specials when they were on BBC America and I was kind of _ehhh_ about those too, so, well, she pulled out her metaphorical big gun and showed me the one about the Titanic and I liked that one.”  
  
“About the Titanic,” Killian repeats, like he’s testing out the words and Emma rolls her eyes.

“You said you wouldn’t laugh.”  
  
“I’m not, love, honestly. I am incredibly curious. That’s the second Titanic reference you’ve made this week.”  
  
“No, it’s not. What was the other one?”  
  
“You knew about John Jacob Astor dying on the Titanic. He did, by the way. I looked it up.”  
  
“Why?” Emma asks, but it comes out like some kind of half-sighing, half-screeching noise and Killian’s thumb is still moving.

“I was curious. And you were right. There were a lot of conflicting reports though. Some of them seem to think he was a complete ass and then some claim he made sure kids got on the lifeboats and then froze in the ocean.”  
  
“Merry Christmas.”  
  
“The Titanic sank in April.”  
  
“I know,” Emma nods and Killian widens his eyes like he’s trying to communicate without needing to resort to words. “And I know because house number…” She squeezes one eye shut and grimaces, trying to pick through memories she’s spent the better part of her adult life working to forget.

“Six? Seven? It doesn’t matter. It was 1999 and house number whatever had a VHS of Titanic and me and a bunch of the older kids copped it and watched the whole thing and I was the only one who cried and they made fun of me the rest of the time I was there, but I was still kind of interested? Not just in the love story. I mean, you know, Leonardo DiCaprio is Leonardo DiCaprio, but I wanted to know more about the history and the ship and the people and so I read. Everything I could get my hands on, even watched some documentary the library had. I had to sneak downstairs to use the TV in the middle of the night so no one would know. I guess I’ve retained a questionable amount of Titanic knowledge.”

She shrugs and he’s staring at her with a look she can’t quite define, but it makes her pulse thud in her ears. “Anyway,” Emma continues. “M’s heard that whole sob story a million and two years ago and thought a Titanic-based episode of Doctor Who might get me to like Doctor Who, but it just got me to like the episode. And now I know all the words.”

Killian doesn’t say anything and, honestly, it’s messing with her head a little bit, but that also may be the Gallifrey Sunrises and she has no idea what time it is.

Emma tries to smile, waving a dismissive hand through the air. She doesn’t expect Killian to catch it or tug her fingers up until they’re brushing across his lips or maybe the other way around and oxygen, suddenly, seems secondary to anything that isn’t explicitly related to him.

“I didn’t know that,” he says.

“Are you drunk?” she asks, cringing when she realizes it comes out as a whisper.

Killian nods. “Yes. Are you?”  
  
“Yeah, I think so. You want to go back to Liam and Elsa’s?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Ok, come on.”  
  
It’s, easily, the longest cab ride of her entire life. The driver grumbles when he realizes he’s going to have to, eventually, drive cross-town, but Emma barely notices, just lets herself be tugged back against Killian’s side.

He kisses her hair more than once, fingers tracing nonsensical patterns across her shoulder and that buzzing has turned into something that feels a bit more like contentment and something akin to terror if this all blows up in her face.

God, she hopes it doesn’t.

There’s more grumbling when they pull up at the curb of someone else’s Upper West Side apartment building and Emma tries to tug her wallet out of her bag, but Killian just swats her hand away. “I’ve got it, love,” he promises and she doesn’t think he’s realized how often he’s called her that in the last two hours.

Emma doesn’t argue, just follows him onto the sidewalk when he slams the car door shut behind him and there’s no way he can be comfortable when he’s spent the majority of the night with his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

She doesn’t ask.

There’s an elevator in that very fancy apartment building and a doorman who nods at Emma when she walks –  _stumbles_ – into the lobby, glancing at Killian. “It’s fine,” Emma says, not sure why she’s trying to make excuses about bringing another human being back to a hotel room that’s actually someone’s apartment.

It feels...weird.

She feels weird. She feels drunk.

The elevator ride doesn’t take as long as the cab ride, but it’s a close second and the hallway ahead of them suddenly feels eighteen miles long. “You still with me, Swan?” Killian asks, reaching over her to push open the door when Emma unlocks it.

She hums and absolutely, positively does not lean back against him and he absolutely, positively does not kiss her temple again, one arm wrapped around her waist as he tries to direct her into the room.

“Yeah, I’m good,” she mumbles, shrugging out of her jacket and taking a step away. “You want something to drink or...something?”

Killian doesn’t move.

Emma tugs on her lip, crossing her arms lightly and rocking back on her heels. It’s a mistake – the whole room seems to spin with her when she moves and it takes less than a full second for Killian to be there, one hand on her waist and the other on her arm and it’s as if the whole world rediscovers the definition of gravity.

“You’re drunk,” he says and it doesn’t sound like an accusation. It sounds like an observation.

“So are you. You know, we never really talked about the rat hierarchy. We got distracted by Santa Claus.”  
  
He blinks at her like she’s been replaced with a convincing cyborg duplicate and Emma sags under the crushing, alcohol-fueled disappointment that she doesn’t have to wait for it to blow up in her face if she’s lighting the fuse herself.

“I’m just saying,” Emma continues, taking a step back and she can feel her shoulders heave when she takes a deep breath. “When the rat prince, king, whatever died...what happens to the rest of the rats? Was that all just part of the curse for Uncle Drosselmeyer’s nephew? He gets turned into a Nutcracker prince, thing, and suddenly it creates this whole other world? That can cross over into our word?”  
  
She’s run out of air. She’s honestly forgotten to breathe while waxing poetic about a horribly bad animated Christmas movie from the ‘90s.  
  
Killian’s still staring at her.

So Emma keeps talking.

“I’m just saying. It’s weird. And the rat population deserved a ruler that could help make them better if that world just continued on after the Nutcracker Prince became an actual human being again.” Killian blinks. “Or, wait, maybe the rats were only sentient when the toys came to life. Because that’s how it worked, right...it was midnight and Clara came downstairs and…”  
  
“Emma,” Killian says and it might be the first time he’s ever interrupted her.

“Yeah.”

“Stop talking about rats.”

She nods slowly and he hasn’t even taken his jacket off and one of them must have moved, but it feels like everything freezes for a moment. She blinks and he’s there, standing in front of her and he tilts his head before he kisses her.

_He kisses her._

In someone else’s kitchen.

And, suddenly, it’s like everything is sped up and Emma’s moving quickly, but not quickly enough, one arm slung around his neck to try and keep her balance. It doesn’t really work, she rocks against him and Killian makes some kind of noise in the back of his throat that seems to shoot straight through her.

They can’t seem to stop moving, hands everywhere, like they’re trying to trace each other or make sure this is happening and _this is happening_ and Emma sighs when she feels his tongue against her lip. She pushes her hand under his jacket and it’s a complete disaster, but she’s been talking about rat hierarchy for the last five minutes, so all things considered a battle with a leather jacket seems almost understandable.

The stupid thing lands on the floor with an almost audible crash and Emma laughs against Killian, can feel his smile when he kisses her through the noise “Are you laughing, Swan?” he mumbles, walking them even further into the apartment and Emma’s hips cant when her back collides with someone else’s counter.

She laughs more when he groans in response, his hand drifting down towards her hip and squeezing slightly. “I’m sorry, what was that?” Emma asks, thankful she hasn’t taken off her boots because she’s still got some height to her, but she’s also wobbling a bit on not-quite-high heels. She moves again, her whole front flush against his and Killian’s eyes flutter shut when her fingers card through his hair.

Emma grins.

God, he’s ridiculously good at this.

It’s exactly what she expects it to be – overwhelming and absolutely consuming and she’s having a hard time coming up with other adjectives when she can feel Killian’s fingers along the bottom of her shirt.

It’s, somehow, also the exact opposite of what she expects it to be.

He’s trying to hold himself back, she can tell, nosing at her cheek when he pulls away to catch his breath and, if asked, Emma would swear she could feel the heat radiating off him. And suddenly it’s as if he’s realized what they’re doing or what he’s doing and Emma tries not to sigh when Killian’s hand falls back to his side.

“Hey,” Emma whispers and he practically leaps to attention. She tries to smile, but she’s half positive it doesn’t really work, so she resorts to just resting her hands flat against his chest and is pleasantly surprised when Killian wraps his fingers around her wrist. “Still with me?”

“Always,” he answers and it’s immediate and almost reverent and Emma has to take a deep breath before she can say anything else.

“You don’t want anything more to drink, right?” He shakes his head and his thumb is moving again. Emma bites the inside of her cheek. “And, uh...you don’t want to go back downtown, right?” Another head shake. “Ok, um…”  
  
“I can sleep on the couch, Swan. It’s fine.”  
  
“No, no, that’s ridiculous.” Killian’s eyebrows shoot up and the end of his mouth ticks up, but he doesn’t actually say anything and Emma tries not to dissolve into a drunk puddle of disappointment and want and how is she ever going to fall asleep when she knows how goddamn good he is at kissing?  
  
At kissing her.

“Yeah?” he asks and Emma nods like it’s not the biggest question in the world and she wasn’t just trying to undress him in someone else’s kitchen.

“That was the plan, right? You’re not belligerently drunk, so I guess you’re allowed to stay.”

“I think you’re trying to tell me I’m delightful now, Swan.”  
  
“And you’re fishing for compliments.”  
  
Killian makes a dismissive noise and she’s not even remotely prepared for him to duck his head and kiss her cheek. “I’m not, love, I promise.”

She hums or nods or does _actually_ melt, but she’s fairly certain it’s not the last one because the next thing Emma knows she’s mumbling something about _brushing her teeth_ and _blankets in the closet_ and Killian smiles at her before she walks away.

She absolutely takes too long and briefly considers some kind of drastic escape route, but then she comes back out of the room and Killian’s head is already on the pillows, blankets tucked up under his chin and maybe delightful isn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Killian mumbles, cracking open one eye and Emma exhales. He smiles when she takes a step forward, lifting up the edge of the blanket he’s got gripped in his hand and this is fine.

It’s _fine_.

They’ve done this before. More than once. Plenty of times. In _his_ apartment several dozen times before he left New York.

So, it’s been awhile and they just drunkenly made out in the kitchen and Emma’s fairly certain she’ll get some kind of award from her dentist for the brushing she just gave her teeth, but none of those things really matter when she can feel how warm Killian is.

“God, you’re like a furnace,” Emma mumbles and she can feel his laugh against the back of her neck. She burrows into the mattress, tugging her feet up and brushing them over his, earning a string of hissed curses.

“And you’re frozen,” Killian grumbles, but she can feel the bed shift when he pulls himself closer to her. “How did that happen? You were wearing socks all day.”  
  
“A miracle of science.”  
  
“Must be. Honestly, though Swan, that can’t be healthy. Didn’t you use the hand warmers? If they didn’t work we should get you better socks tomorrow. And don’t you have insurance? Tell August to give you insurance so you can find out why your circulation is so…”  
  
“Killian,” she interrupts and he hums in response. “Stop talking.”

He laughs again, but Emma can still feel him half an inch behind her, fingers tapping on the minimal bit of mattress between them, like he’s trying to work out excess energy. “Deal,” Killian mutters, shifting again and, a million and two years in the future, Emma still won’t know why she does what she does next.

She reaches blindly behind her, grabbing ahold of his arm before she can stop herself, fingers tugging just above his prosthetic and she can hear him inhale, but that only lasts long enough for her to drape his arm over her waist until it’s wrapped around her.

She doesn’t let go of him.

His breathing evens out eventually, the rise and fall of his chest like a metronome against her back and Emma’s just on the edge of sleep when the realization seems to reach out and slap her. And she’s known it forever, has been ignoring it for just as long and she doesn’t just want to make out with her best friend.

She’s in love with her best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of things happened, but we did follow through on the kissing promise! I'm honestly not trying to make Liam seem like the worst, but he is a little...unaware ha. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos. It means the world. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

She wakes up alone.

Damn.

God _fucking_ damn.

And that’s not really the right sentiment on Christmas Eve, but Emma can’t bring herself to care when she flips on her back and has to bite her lip because the whole goddamn world seems to decide to move with her.

She exhales slowly, like she’s trying to time it or something equally absurd, squeezing her eyes shut and begging to every God, Christmas-related or otherwise, that she won’t actually get sick in someone else’s bed.

She’s fairly positive she’ll have to pay more for that.

Emma doesn’t open her eyes when she reaches to her left, slamming her palm down on the empty mattress next to her, not sure why she’s doing that. She can already tell the bed is empty, except for her slightly nauseous body, but she’s only a few hours removed from drunken life-revelations, so she keeps hitting the fitted sheet until she’s half certain she’s going to leave a permanent dent.

The sheets are cold, but they’re also a little crumpled, like there was a struggle to get out of them and Emma’s mind must still be a bit alcohol-muddled because she can’t quite process any of that until she feels fingers catch around her wrist mid mattress-pummel.

“Swan,” he says and there’s a hint of laughter in his voice that makes her stomach flip again. Only it isn’t alcohol-induced, it’s feelings-induced and maybe that’s worse and she still hasn’t opened her eyes.

The bed dips when Killian sinks onto it and Emma groans before she can actually control any of the sounds she’s making. He absolutely laughs.

And she can dimly make out music playing...somewhere.

A few feet away?

She’s lost all concept of distance with her eyes still closed and Killian hasn’t let go of her wrist, thumb tracing out nonsensical patterns across her forearm.

“Swan,” he repeats and the mattress shifts when he moves again, like he’s trying lean a bit closer to her. She squeezes her eyes tighter. It hurts her head. “C’mon, open your eyes, love.”  
  
“No thanks,” Emma mumbles, shaking her head slightly and she licks her lips because however many Gallifrey Sunrises she drank the night before have seemingly done quite a number on just, like, her entire life.

Killian chuckles and there’s definitely music. It’s soft and festive and painfully familiar and it only takes another two seconds of eyes-closed breathing exercises to realize it’s the soundtrack to _A Charlie Brown Christmas_.

Jeez.

“Are you for real?” Emma mumbles and it’s a bit of a double-edged question, but she’s fairly positive Killian doesn’t realize that because he just hums in the back of his throat.

He lets go of her wrist and she barely has time to mourn the loss of that before she can feel his thumb brush across her cheek and it’s far too early in the morning for that. Or she assumes it is because she hasn’t actually opened her eyes long enough to look at her phone or a clock and she’s fairly certain no one owns clocks anymore, especially people renting out their uptown apartment on Christmas.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question, Swan,” Killian says, tapping lightly against the edge of her mouth and it’s frustratingly….frustrating.

Emma groans, but it comes out more like a growl and she, finally, opens her eyes. It’s, naturally, a mistake. And frustrating is a very good word for all of this.

He looks tired, but it’s clear he’s been awake for awhile and that’s so _him_ it makes Emma’s heart expand and contract at the same time, something about schedules and sunlight and the United States Navy.

She’d noticed his hair the first day in New York, longer than it’s been in years and she has questions about that, but she’s more interested in getting her fingers back into it and maybe kissing him again or indefinitely and there’s absolutely another schedule they both have to follow, but opening her eyes is some kind of monumental task for Emma at this point, so maybe Mary Margaret will understand.

Killian moves his hand, tracing across her neck and over her shoulder and it’s distracting and _frustrating_ and Emma’s not sure what to say next.

“Aren’t you hungover?” she asks, wincing when _that’s_ what her brain decides to mumble, splayed out in the middle of someone else’s bed.

He nods. “Oh, yeah, absolutely.”

She doesn’t expect that. She expects, at least, a bit of deflection or banter, but Killian just keeps staring straight at her and the room is still spinning.

And she’s only just realized that, in addition to hearing vintage Christmas soundtracks in the background of whatever kind of meaningful conversation they’re about to have, or probably should have because they _made out in someone else’s kitchen last night_ , Emma can smell something. Several somethings. Caffeine-type somethings and what actually might be the very distinct scent of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls.

“I don’t…” Emma starts slowly. “I don’t understand what’s going on. Did you...wait, did you leave?”

He flashes her a smile that seems to land right in the middle of her Gallifrey Sunrise-induced headache and work its way through every inch of her body before landing in her toes which are, still, somehow frozen.

Killian shrugs and his hair is falling in his eyes and there might actually be snow in it. Possibly-still drunk Emma clearly isn’t very observant.

“Just for a couple of minutes,” Killian says. “I figured letting you sleep was a fairly good idea and also a fairly safe bet since you sleep like the goddamn dead, Swan.”  
  
“Rude,” she mumbles and he just keeps smiling at her.

“You’re right, that’s inappropriately unfestive. Not the dead, just...snow zombies.”  
  
“That doesn’t even make any sense.”  
  
“How do you figure?”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, but it’s all so normal and them and it’s the banter she was waiting for a few minutes before so she can’t really blame herself when she just keeps talking. She flips her head to the side, flopping onto one of the extra pillows Killian must have found in the closet the night before, and he quirks an eyebrow at her, waiting for the rebuttal.

“Zombies don’t sleep,” Emma says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world. A few hours removed from making out with Killian Jones in _someone else’s kitchen_ , it might actually be. “They’re not alive.”

“We’ve circled back to sleeping like the dead, love.”  
  
“No, no, because zombies aren’t dead either. They’re the undead. By their very definition. They just wander around moaning or something. There’s no room in the schedule for sleep.”  
  
“You think zombies have a moaning schedule?”  
  
“If they’re spending the weekend with Mary Margaret.”  
  
Killian scoffs and Emma hasn’t noticed his hand moving until she feels it on her hip, thumb tapping against the blanket that’s, somehow, still twisted around her legs. “Ah, that’s probably true,” he admits and she smiles like she’s actually won something instead of just, maybe, put off the inevitable.

She’s not sure she actually wants to talk about it.

She’s not sure she actually believes any of that happened.

God, he was _ridiculously_ good at kissing.

“Hey,” Killian mutters and Emma’s eyes dart back to his, concern etched in between his eyebrows. “What are you thinking, Swan?”  
  
“Don’t you just know?”  
  
He shakes his head slowly. “You were talking about zombies and their moaning-type schedule and then you went all glossy for a second. You ok? I bought that garbage drink you like.”  
  
“What?”

The worry seems to almost visibly fall off him and if Emma weren’t already so certain of how ridiculously good he is at kissing her, she probably would have been able to come up with some fairly detailed imagery just based on the way his mouth quirks when he tries not to laugh at her and how his smile always seems to get wider whenever he looks at her.

She licks her lips again.

“Knockoff coconut water,” Killian explains like it’s obvious and, again, it kind of is. Emma briefly considers tugging the covers up over her head and working on disappearing into the mattress.

She, however, isn’t a wizard or a zombie and she’s not asleep anymore and Killian bought her Duane Reade coconut water because she swears it’s better than the actual brand and she should probably stock up before she goes back to Boston.

He probably bought her a dozen bottles.

“The girl thought I was insane,” he continues, clearly picking up storytelling steam the longer she stays there, slightly slack-jawed in someone else’s bed. “She kept trying to explain to me that there was better water in the freezer and the ZICO was on sale, whatever that means…”  
  
“It’s a brand,” Emma interrupts. He flashes her a look and she presses her lips together tightly, widening her eyes in some kind of silent entreaty to keep talking.

Killian grins. He still hasn’t moved his hand and Emma’s nearly convinced it’s actually on fire or she’s on fire and they should _really_ talk about last night.

She’s more interested in the great, Christmas Eve battle for off-brand coconut water.

“So,” Killian says pointedly and Emma doesn’t even try to stop herself from rolling her eyes in response. “I told the girl I appreciated the offer and the sale on ZICO water, even when she mentioned that the chocolate flavor was, apparently, the best ever.”

Emma sticks her tongue out, gagging slightly and Killian pulls his hand back up to tap his thumb against her lower lip. “Swan,” he chastises, but there’s something that almost sounds like amusement just on the edge of his voice and maybe he’s nearly not as hungover as he claims he is.

Maybe this isn’t just normal banter.

Maybe this isn’t a story about coconut water.

Maybe this is flirting.

It feels a hell of a lot like flirting.

Emma wishes she didn’t feel like she was close to actually becoming a zombie while flirting with Killian on Christmas Eve in someone else’s apartment.

That would probably ruin Mary Margaret’s schedule.

“Are you going to let me tell the rest of the story now, love?” he asks, ducking his head until he’s only a few inches away from her and every single cell in Emma’s body is absolutely convinced he’s going to kiss her.

Again.

He doesn’t.

And every single cell seems to scream out in disappointment. As if that’s something cells can do. She has no idea. Two seconds ago she was convinced she was about to become a zombie.

“Yeah,” Emma breathes and Killian’s eyebrows shift again at the absolutely _absurd_ sound of her voice, bordering somewhere in between harlequin and Hallmark movie. “No more digs about absolutely disgusting flavors of water, I promise. But, like, you didn’t get chocolate coconut water, did you? Because that honestly sounds horrendous.”

He shoots her an incredulous stare and Emma’s back on the kissing train before she realizes her mind is capable of coming up with something quite that absurd, fingers moving away from the blanket to rest on the curve of his knee.

“Swan, this is not the not-interrupting we agreed to,” he grins. It’s stupid and frustrating and the cinnamon rolls are probably going to burn. He probably set a timer. This seems like the kind of apartment that would have a cooking timer. Or...a clock.

She hums in the back of her throat, nodding as much as she can when she’s still laying on her back and twisted up in blankets with her arm threatening to pop out of its socket so she can keep touching him.

Merry Christmas. Or whatever.

“I didn’t get chocolate coconut water,” he says, reaching up to brush the hair away from her forehead. His hand is impossibly warm. Emma tries not to automatically assume it’s a sign.

It’s not.

Probably.

Likely.

Just science. Human science. Nothing to do with zombies or chocolate or how she managed to sleep through an entire shopping expedition and half the soundtrack to _A Charlie Brown Christmas_.

“Yeah, I know,” Emma grumbles, appreciating the way Killian’s eyebrows shoot up at that particular certainty. “Please, you’ve been around long enough to know that the only time I drink coconut water is when I’m in New York and when I’ve had a questionable amount of tequila.”  
  
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say questionable, Swan. Considerable, sure, but not questionable. I don’t remember you making any particularly damning decisions last night.”  
  
Her heart stops.

She’s certain of it. She’s, officially, become a zombie with a no longer beating heart and Emma wishes she’d paid more attention when David tried to get them all to watch _The Walking Dead_ that one time because she’s not sure if turning into a zombie means all her organs should feel like they’re systematically shutting down while her tongue suddenly feels too big for her mouth.

She’s absolutely freezing and too hot at the same time and there is not enough oxygen in someone else’s apartment.

The oxygen she can manage to breath smells too much like cinnamon anyway.

“Swan,” Killian says and it’s absolutely not the first time he’s tried to get her attention. “Emma, come on, look at me for two seconds.”  
  
Emma squeezes one eye shut, doing her best to fight off whatever seems to be happening in the pit of her stomach when he forgoes nicknames and she’s fairly certain _this is it_ in some kind of relationship-altering way.

Relationship.

Jesus.

Except the opposite of that. Because it’s Christmas Eve. And she might be slowly transforming into a coconut water-drinking zombie, but she’d rather not be damned for all eternity on Christmas Eve.

She should probably start breathing more.

“That’s not exactly looking, but I’ll take it,” Killian grins, twisting around and swinging his legs onto the bed until he’s stretched out next to her. He holds his arm up expectantly and, well, ok, yeah, that’s fine. That’s normal. That’s….relationship’y.

That’s absolutely what’s happening. Emma is, at least, ninety-six percent positive.

It’s that four percent that might be driving her insane though and she isn’t really a relationship kind of person, hasn’t been much more than just _her_ for years and there’s never really been any time. Or anyone who seemed particularly interested in sticking around.

She is, clearly, an emotional mess when she’s hungover on Christmas Eve. And she can’t think clearly when Killian’s fingers start tracing over her arm.

He is absurdly warm.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he says softly, quiet enough that Emma’s not convinced she hears it at first. The words seem to, mostly, get caught in her hair.

Emma tries not to tense, but it doesn’t work and she can feel lips brushing across her hair. That’s confusing, but also kind of normal and that’s only more confusing. Her head hurts. “That’s...uh,” she stammers. “I mean that’s…”  
  
“You’re rather eloquent this early in the morning, love.”

“How early is it, actually? I haven’t even looked at my phone. Are we late for something?”  
  
“Not yet, but I’ve got a fairly strong suspicion we’re going to blow off ice skating.”  
  
“Oh God,” Emma groans and Killian’s arm tightens around her shoulders. “I can’t even imagine bending over to tie up laces, let alone stand on ice for several hours.”  
  
“I think they kick you out fairly quickly in Rockefeller Center, actually. And it’s absurdly expensive. I tried to tell Mary Margaret that last week…”  
  
Emma jerks up and it’s the worst decision she’s made since waking up, because her stomach seems to fly into her mouth and the heart that, just a few minutes before had all but disappeared in between her ribs, hammers to life until it’s almost painful, beating out a staccato rhythm she’s positive she can feel reverberating down her spine.

“Oh fucking hell,” she mumbles and Killian chuckles, but he’s moving too, leaning over the side of the bed and a nightstand she was only dimly aware of.

He’s holding coconut water. “Here,” he says softly, pushing the bottle into her hands. “Two drinks and then Tylenol.”

“Did you buy Tylenol, too?”  
  
“I bought, at least, half of Duane Reade. I’m fairly positive the girl behind the counter thought I was insane.”  
  
Emma laughs, sagging forward until she’s nearly resting her forehead on his shoulder and they’re a twisted pretzel of limbs and blankets and pillows and she had no idea  _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ soundtrack was this long.

Maybe it’s on loop.

She’s still sipping the water – deliciously off-brand and she kind hopes he did buy several cases, even if she’s not entirely sure how she’d get that back to Boston – when she’s, apparently, reached her two-drink limit and Killian pulls the bottle away, ignoring her not-so-quiet protests. He taps on her wrist and Emma barely has time to consider how many times they’ve done _this_ because she knows exactly what he wants her to do before she’s flipping her palm up expectantly and trying not to choke on medicine capsules.

Emma makes a wholly immature noise again, shivering like the Tylenol was ice, but she swears she can still taste the slightly grainy texture on the back of her tongue. “You are honestly the worst kind of sick person,” Killian says, giving her back the water bottle when she just starts making noise and pointing in the direction of the table.

“This is not sick,” Emma argues. “This is hungover. There’s an absolute difference.”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
“How are you fine? You said you were hungover and you definitely had more rum than I did.”  
  
“You didn’t have any rum, Swan,” he points out, muttering a quiet disapproval when she more or less starts chugging coconut water. “As discussed, just a considerable amount of tequila. And, c’mon, you’re going to make yourself sick.”  
  
She pulls her mouth away from the bottle, twisting her lips and the water seems to land like a rock in her stomach. She almost appreciates it, like it’s grounding her or something, especially when Killian’s eyes dart down to her legs, the blanket half on the floor and her shorts not doing much to cover...much.

“You can’t just say things like that, Captain,” Emma says. “You’re going to make me think you’re worried about me or something.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
It’s quick or, maybe, immediate and exactly the same way he said _always_ the night before and Emma bites her lip so she doesn’t start shouting _declarations_ in someone else’s bed while her mouth still tastes like Tylenol and coconuts.

“I’m fine,” Emma argues, not sure it’s an argument or why he still hasn’t explained apologizing for last night. She hopes he doesn’t apologize for last night.

“Oh, I know that, Swan. But I wasn’t. Which brings us back to square one of this discussion and why I’m trying to pry you out of bed with an, honestly, ridiculous amount of coconut water and cinnamon rolls and actual cinnamon.”  
  
“Actual cinnamon?”  
  
“They didn’t have any here.”  
  
“You went through their cabinets?”  
  
“You didn’t?”  
  
“No,” Emma exclaims and they’re not very good at sticking to the schedule of a conversation when that conversation might actually just be them flirting. She has absolutely no memory of moving her leg over his. Or his hand landing on her knee. “This isn’t...it’s not my apartment.”

Killian shrugs. “Well they didn’t have any cinnamon in any of the cabinets I looked through this morning while trying not to actually wake you up.”  
  
“I thought you were all making quips about me sleeping like the dead and Christmas zombies.”

Another shrug. “Do they have names?”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“The people you rented an apartment from on Christmas.”  
  
“I mean, obviously,” Emma mutters and the flirting has evolved into teasing and that hardly seems fair when the Tylenol hasn’t done its actual job yet. “And their names are Patrick and Samantha. Unless they were lying on their Airbnb ad.”  
  
“I don’t think Patrick and Samantha would do that.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“Nah,” Killian says, tugging her closer to his side so she has to move her other leg. Her feet are hanging off the side of the bed. “They’ve got a questionable number of non-cinnamon-type spices in that one cabinet above the coffee maker and I don’t think people who actually own a bottle of fennel seed are capable of lying on the internet.”  
  
“What do you do with fennel seed?”  
  
He’s going to do permanent damage to his shoulders if he keeps shrugging. “I honestly have no idea, but it’s open, so clearly Patrick and Samantha do.”  
  
“Weird, do you think they’re secret foodies?”  
  
“Did you just use the word foodies? Who are you?”  
  
“Someone who needs more coconut water,” Emma answers immediately, grumbling out the words when she realizes she’s drank an entire bottle already.

Killian, however, doesn’t even flinch – he _does_ bat an eyelash, several of them actual, so there is at least that particular cliché, but Emma’s too preoccupied considering how damn long his eyelashes are and how his eyes still manage to look ridiculously blue even when he’s, reportedly, hungover to really think about _wording_ and _sentence structure._

He brings her with him when he moves, mumbling something that might be _don’t get sick on me, Swan_ in her ear and she doesn’t, just rolls her eyes and tries to keep breathing.

“Ma’am,” he says, grinning at her like several different Cheshire Cats and he’s holding another bottle of water.

“Wizard,” Emma mutters. She swears she can feel an electric shock when his fingers brush over hers. “And you were the one sending out marching orders before about how many drinks I could take.”  
  
“I don’t think you should be marching anywhere quite yet, love. Not at least until your head doesn’t feel like it’s about to snap open.”  
  
“We’re getting there. ‘Ish.”

She takes several gulps of water, until it feels like it’s actually sloshing around in her stomach, which isn’t a particularly pleasant image, but it’s better than a boulder and nerves picking at the back of her mind and maybe _getting there_ isn’t a total lie.

“‘Ish is a step in the right direction,” Killian smiles. “Also, I think Patrick and Samantha are incredibly rich.”  
  
“Did the Central Park West apartment not give that away?”  
  
“Well, yeah, but do you know how expensive that shampoo in the hallway closet is?”  
  
Emma is certain she’s suffering from conversational whiplash and she can’t quite figure out how Killian managed to inspect every corner of the apartment in the last day and a half. “This is weird,” she points out, stabbing a finger into the center of his chest. He lets out a low grunt, but it’s more surprise than actual pain and Emma grins into his shoulder when he wraps his fingers around her wrist. “Why are you stalking Patrick and Samantha?”  
  
“Swan, they’re not even here,” Killian argues. “And it’s not stalking. It is...examining.”  
  
“That sounds weirder.”  
  
He sighs, resting his chin on the top of her head when she burrows against him and they still haven’t actually _talked_ about last night. She has no idea how to broach that particular subject after accusing him of stalking. “Yeah, maybe,” Killian admits. “But you were asleep and I just wanted to make sure Patrick and Samantha weren’t, I don’t know, storing bombs in their closet or something.”  
  
Emma tries to ignore whatever it is gravity does when she moves, swallowing down the metaphorical stomach still sitting in the back of her throat, and Killian ducks his eyes when she stares at him. “When I was asleep?” she asks and he makes some kind of noise that might be an agreement. “That was the first night. You fell asleep first last night.”  
  
His eyes widen at the phrase _last night_ and Emma has, at least, eight-hundred questions about that, but the conversation has changed again and she wonders if you can get bruises from theoretical whiplash.

“Yeah,” Killian says. “You fell asleep midway through Miracle on 34th Street on Friday night, but you’re you, Swan, you didn’t even notice when I tried to get you to stand up. Although I’m not sure why I tried to even stage that battle. It was pointless from the beginning.”  
  
“Ass.”  
  
“Merry Christmas.”  
  
“Alright, alright, so I’m asleep on Friday night and you’re trying to get me to stand up and, what, you just happen to open up the closet door on the way there?”

“No, that’d be insane. You stood up, nearly kicked me in the shins several times while falling towards the mattress and I only looked in the hallway closet after that.”  
  
Emma narrows her eyes. “I am...confused,” she admits. “How...how long did you stay here on Friday night?”

“A while,” Killian answers evasively, but there’s almost something that might actually be a flush to his cheeks and he’s been inside long enough that he absolutely can’t blame the cold. “Just, you know, to make sure.”  
  
“To make sure?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“That is not an answer, Captain.”  
  
He purses his lips, tilting his head like he’s examining her and Emma tries not to blink. “A couple of hours,” he says, rushing over the words and staring at the minimal amount of space between them. There really isn’t any. Emma’s legs are still draped over his.

She must have moved her arm at some point because she suddenly realizes that her fingers are toying with the hair at the nape of his neck and Killian’s eyes flutter shut at that, teeth sinking into his lower lip.

It’s probably for the best if they blow off Rockefeller Center.  
  
“I wanted to make sure you were asleep,” Killian says, but it comes out like a whisper and something a bit more meaningful. “You know, consistently or for the rest of the night. I just...if you woke up…”  
  
“I don’t ever wake up,” Emma cuts in and they’ve circled, almost perfectly, back around to the start of the conversation. “We literally just went over this. Zombies. Dead zombies.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“Is there a but?”  
  
“You tell me.”

Killian takes a deep breath and Emma feels his chest move when he exhales, like he’s trying to sigh out the weight of the world and something isn’t right. She knows it. She’s, at least, ninety-eight and half percent positive.

“No, Swan,” he says eventually and the water in her stomach turns to cement. “There’s not.”  
  
“Oh,” Emma blinks. “Right, yeah, ok. Um...but you weren’t here when I woke up.”  
  
“I did have to leave eventually. I didn’t think Liam would appreciate it if I showed up in the same clothes at Macy’s. Plus, all my stuff was downtown. Aside from the obvious intent of buying coconut water this morning, that was part of the Duane Reade quest.”

“Are we calling it a quest now?”  
  
“Absolutely. I needed a toothbrush.”  
  
“You bought coconut water, cinnamon rolls and a toothbrush? No wonder the girl thought you were crazy.”  
  
“And actual cinnamon. Also those peanut-granola bar things you like, several different cereal options and, uh, on-sale candy.”  
  
“On-sale candy? And what kind of cereal? How did you carry all of that?”  
  
“It’s two blocks, Swan,” Killian laughs and whatever he was quite clearly nervous about seems to have been forgotten when he smiles at her with enough force to power all those giant Swarovski crystals hanging in Columbus Circle. “Yes, on-sale candy. Apparently no one is buying gingerbread houses on Christmas Eve. And, uh, Frosted Flakes, the one with fake strawberries in it and multi-grain Cheerios.”  
  
“Oh God, why that last one?”  
  
“Because at some point we have to pretend like we’re actually eating healthy, Swan. Grains are good for you.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, but it only makes him smile wider and maybe that’s ok. “Back track for two seconds, did you say a gingerbread house?”

“I did. The box promises it’s appropriate for ages three and up so I’m thinking we’re good.”  
  
“Fingers crossed.”

He laughs, easy and quiet and it makes her heart stutter and her pulse pick up and she’s going to make him mix all the cereals into one giant bowl. She hopes Patrick and Samantha have a giant bowl.

The soundtrack to _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ is still playing.

“I’ve got some fairly well-placed faith,” Killian promises, managing to, somehow, pull her closer to his side. “Plus, if we decorate this well, it absolutely gives us something to brag about at dinner later when the Frossets are oooh’ing and ahhh’ing over Elsa’s ring and Ruth is trying to figure out when Mary Margaret and David are going to have the rest of the seventy-six children she’s assuming they’re going to have.”  
  
“Please, Ruth is under the impression Mary Margaret and David are going to have eight dozen children at least and the oooh’ing and ahhh’ing is almost understandable.”

“Is it?”

She hums and flirting is _exhausting_ because she could absolutely fall asleep on top of him again. “Of course,” Emma mumbles into his shirt. “It’s...I don’t know, it’s pretty. In an engagement ring, sparkly type of way.”  
  
It’s not a very good description, but it’s the best Emma can come up with, images of the ring on Elsa’s finger and the way it seemed to just shine even in the dim lights of the restaurant the night before and there were sapphires and it was...well pretty was a fairly good word.

She doesn’t hear Killian at first, whatever he says mumbled into the top of her head, but the air seems to get caught in her throat when she feels the tips of his fingers skim across skin, tracing just underneath the hem of her shirt.

“What?” she asks, not able to actually lift her head when his chin is still resting on it.

“It was my mom’s.”  
  
The words still aren’t quite enunciated, but Emma’s hears him that time – like he’s taking extra time on each letter so she can feel them in her soul or _whatever_ and maybe her heart just explodes. And suddenly all those drinks – Captain Jack’s, _God_ , that bar was the worst – make a hell of a lot more sense.

Emma tries to breathe him in or something equally absurd, but maybe vaguely festive or, at least, understandable and he bought a goddamn _gingerbread house_.

“Did you…” Emma starts, twisting to stare at Killian until she’s certain her spine has rearranged itself slightly.

“No,” he answers, not letting her get to the question. “I mean, I knew he’s had the ring forever and I had an idea, or a theory, at least, and I knew that was the great, big, important news as soon as he told me. But, uh, no...I didn’t know for sure he was going to use it until he got down on one knee last night.”  
  
Emma’s not entirely prepared for the rush of emotion to shoot down her recently altered spine. It’s warm, _hot_ like flames flicking at every single one of her nerve endings and it only takes half a second to figure out what it is.

She is pissed the hell off at Liam Jones.

“Swan,” Killian cautions and he was a total liar before because he can absolutely read her mind. “You don’t have to do that, love.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“This isn’t anyone’s fault. He’s had the ring forever, ever since we moved out of the walk-up. I’m fairly positive that ring has been to every continent. He’s older, he’s more...settled or certain or whatever. He gets first dibs.”  
  
“Dibs,” Emma screeches. It makes her head hurt. Killian just widens his eyes, an unspoken plea to _let this drop_ , but, well, it’s Christmas, or Christmas Eve and she’s pissed and hungover and Killian bought all that coconut water.

And a goddamn gingerbread house.

“That’s not how this should work,” Emma mumbles, quiet and maybe a bit more controlled. Killian scoffs. “He should have told you. What if…”

Goddamn it. God fucking damnit. Fuck, hell, shit,  _screw_ Christmas Eve.

She’s an idiot. Who needs to learn how to stop talking. And Killian’s eyes look dangerously wide.  
  
“What if what, Swan,” Killian presses and Emma bites her lip tightly enough to crack it. She takes a very long swig of coconut water.

“You wouldn’t have been so intent on getting drunk if you don’t know how that sentence was going to end.”  
  
His eyes flash, something that looks like every single human emotion and then a few others just for good measure in his gaze, and Emma tries not to choke. Or attack him. With her mouth. In someone else’s bed.

They should really direct the conversation towards that particular point.

“If you leave a book open, anyone’s liable to read it,” Emma mutters. It’s not even a good metaphor. It’s a painfully awful metaphor that doesn’t really make sense, but the ends of Killian’s mouth tick up and that was kind of the goal.

“That was almost poignant for how hungover you are, love.”  
  
“I think that just proves your quest was a success, Captain. And maybe how efficient Tylenol is when you’re properly hydrated.” He tugs her back against him and the blanket is a lost cause now and _fury_ gets replaced with _happy_ so quickly, it’s like fury was never even there to begin with. She should probably mention she loves him at some point. Maybe after she showers. Or they decide to actually get out of someone else’s bed. “You want to tell me the truth, now?”  
  
“I wasn’t lying, Swan,” Killian says quickly. “There are probably dibs involved and older child syndrome or something. And I’m not even in New York anymore, so I shouldn’t really have a say in anything Liam and Elsa do, especially with things like this, but I guess it just took me by surprise a little. The ring and the proposal and the over-the-top romantic gestures.

I’m used to it with Mary Margaret and David, but seeing Liam...I don’t know, it was like something snapped and suddenly he wasn’t just my older brother, he was this entirely different person and an adult with several underlines for emphasis. He’s…”  
  
He trails off, eyes flitting towards the other side of the room and the cinnamon rolls are absolutely burnt. Emma tries to stay patient, wait for the rest of the explanation or the story, but that’s not really her strong suit and Killian actually laughs when she huffs out her frustration.

“Anyway,” he continues and she can hear the smile in his voice even when he’s not looking at her. “They’re going to go live some picture-perfect life and the Frossets are probably going to try and start planning a wedding at dinner tonight and, well, I just...it was like my whole brain short-circuited because that’s not…”

Killian takes another deep breath, shoulders moving with the force of it and Emma’s head shakes where it’s resting on his chest. _Open book_. “You don’t know that,” Emma whispers, tugging on the front of his shirt.

She doesn’t expect him to freeze.

She expects him to kiss her, honestly.

He doesn’t.

He clicks his tongue instead and flashes a smile that feels just a little forced and he’s still talking, but she’s not processing much more than _sorry_ and _shouldn’t have had so much to drink_ and _barely even remember leaving the bar_.

It’s like she’s opened every single bottle of coconut water he bought and promptly dumped it over her head.

He doesn’t remember.

“I haven’t had that much to drink in years,” Killian continues, seemingly unaware of Emma’s theoretical meltdown. Her head hurts again. It’s probably because she isn’t breathing. “It was...well, I’m sorry, Swan. That wasn’t fair to you. I don’t even know how you got me back uptown. How did we get up here?”  
  
She licks her lips before she answers and they’re still cut up from her teeth, but that seems like the least of her troubles when she is almost certain she can actually hear several different organs cracking and crumbling and things that aren’t at all medically accurate.  
  
“Swan,” Killian prompts, wrapping his hand around her shoulder. She flinches. And he tilts his head like he wasn’t expecting that.

She resists the very real urge to hiss _welcome to the club_ at him.

God fucking damnit. Screw the Christmas spirit and the entire borough of Brooklyn.

“Um,” Emma mumbles, blinking quickly and if she actually starts to cry in the middle of someone else’s bed, she’s just going to hole up in that closet for the rest of the day. Or, like, her whole life. “Well, you paid, so, really you’re the one who got us back up here. Although I did try to, just for the record or whatever, but you weren’t really feeling that at all.”  
  
Killian grins at her and it’s exactly the same look it was ten minutes ago before burnt cinnamon rolls and, apparently, missing memories of last night and disappointment feels distinctly different than any of the other emotions she’s felt that morning.

It’s heavy, like smog or fog or some other word that rhymes with both of those words, and it seems to rest on Emma’s shoulders until it feels like her whole body will crack under the pressure of it. She keeps blinking, tugging her lips back behind her teeth and pressing her tongue against her cheek and she wants to move, _needs to move_ , needs to find the blanket or turn the oven off because she’s fairly certain Patrick and Samantha won’t appreciate if they set their smoke alarm off, but none of her muscles want to cooperate and she’s stuck in the middle of someone else’s bed trying to figure out how to contend with the suffocating feeling of disappointment.

That’s what it is.

She feels like she’s suffocating.

Killian blinks and the grin seems to almost slide off his face. “Emma,” he says softly, lifting his hand up tap his thumb against her jaw like he didn’t spend several hours sitting on someone else’s couch on Friday just to make sure she didn’t wake up alone in the middle of the night and didn’t buy those peanut-granola bar things she likes because she’s totally going to get hungry at some awkward time between cinnamon rolls and lunch and dinner and there’s an unopened gingerbread house sitting on the counter.

At least she assumes it is. She still hasn’t gotten out of bed.

“Still here,” she mumbles and it’s only half true. She exists in some sort of emotion-based fog that she’s positive will only clear when Killian’s gone and she, maybe, throws an unopened gingerbread house out the window.

That’s probably against the Airbnb rules.

“Could have fooled me,” Killian laughs. He hasn’t moved his hand. He has no _idea_. “You went all glossy-eyed again. I’ll give you several quarters for your thoughts, love.”  
  
“You don’t ever carry cash.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s true,” he admits. “But the offer’s still on the table. Metaphorically at least. You hungry? There really were cinnamon rolls out there.”  
  
She shakes her head before she actually decides on an answer, but her mind doesn’t seem to care and she just wants to shake something. Maybe Killian. Definitely Liam. _Absolutely_ Liam.

Killian eyebrows lower and Emma can practically taste the confusion rolling off him in waves, but she doesn’t really trust herself to keep talking. She has no idea what to do next.

There are no rules for making out with your best friend in someone else’s kitchen after his brother proposes to one of your other friends with a family heirloom that he was, maybe, kind of, sort of planning on using himself?

Killian didn’t actually say that. Emma just assumes. She should stop doing that.

“Was that a no to the cinnamon rolls then?” Killian asks, clearly trying to smile and keep them in this weird, comfortable bubble of flirting and banter and potential gingerbread.

“No, um,” Emma mumbles. She nearly falls over when she stands up which seems pretty par for the course for how the rest of the day is shaping up and there are no escape routes in a studio. She absolutely did not plan for this. Killian’s eyebrows move again. “I, uh...you probably need to go get changed, right?”  
  
She winces as soon as the words are out of her mouth, teeth finding her lower lip again and it hurts like hell, but everything hurts like hell and she’s a melodramatic idiot. God, that ring was pretty.

Killian doesn’t move. He just stares at her and she can hear the gears working, trying to read her mind and coming up decidedly short. “Oh, uh, no,” he stammers, the first time that might have happened since a wedding and a very well-fitted suit. “I...we went over this, Swan. We were totally going to blow off Rockefeller Center.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but, um, well, I just…”  
  
She can’t actually bring herself to say the words, which honestly seems kind of unfair, but she wants him there on some kind of indefinite level and telling him to _go_ on Christmas Eve after a coconut water quest seems like two-thousand steps in the wrong direction.

It seems final.  

Emma can see the muscles in his throat move when he swallows and his tongue swipes over his teeth before he stands up. “You want me to go, Swan?” he asks, but the words are barely words compared to the rushing in her ears.

_No. Absolutely not. Definitely not. The opposite of that_.

She nods. “Yeah, I mean...I just....if you don’t mind.”  
  
Idiot.

Killian’s eyebrows fly up his forehead so quickly there should probably be sound effects involved and he tilts his head speculatively. “If I mind,” he echoes, like he can’t quite believe what she’s just said. “Emma, what is going on?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
“Stop it,” she snaps and his eyes widen. Emma sighs and she’s half a second away from sinking back onto the mattress and weeping into someone else’s pillow. “Just...thanks for the water and the cereal buffet, but, um, well, my head's killing me and I just want to use all the hot water.”

It’s the most blatantly obvious lie she’s ever told and Killian doesn’t need to be able to _read her_ to know, but he can do that too and Emma has never hated themed bars more in her life.

He nods slowly, taking a step back and crossing his arms lightly over the same shirt he was wearing last night. She wonders if he found his jacket on the floor when he woke up.

“You’re really not going to tell me what’s going on,” Killian says and it’s not a question. Emma shrugs. “Ok,” he continues, an edge to his voice that she hasn’t heard in _years_ and never directed at her and Emma hopes the hot water lasts for several hours. “I'll...dinner?” She nods. “And just...if you need anything or you feel like shit later…”  
  
“I'll be fine,” Emma finishes and, ah, _that’s_ the biggest lie she’s ever told. “Honestly.”  
  
Killian hums, tongue still pressed against his cheek and it feels a little bit like going into shock when he ducks his head and kisses her cheek, squeezing her arm once like it’s just totally normal and it _is_. It is absolutely normal.

She jumps when the door closes behind him and she doesn’t turn the Christmas music off, even after all the hot water runs out.

* * *

Mary Margaret keeps shooting her furtive glances across the table in the absurdly fancy restaurant they somehow managed to get reservations at.

Emma wishes she would stop.

“Are you alright?” Mary Margaret asks for, at least, the nine-hundredth time and Emma just shoots her the same tight lip smile she has for the majority of the evening.

“Fine.”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Babe, drop it,” David mutters and Emma briefly considers buying him the most expensive meal on the menu, but that thought dissipates when she realizes he’s only trying to make sure Ruth doesn’t realize what’s going on.

Ruth also keeps glancing at Emma. When she’s not busy cooing over Robbie or fawning over Elsa’s engagement ring and for what may be the first time in the history of these quasi-family outings Emma isn’t sitting next to Killian.

She’s sitting next to one of David’s friends who, per introductions, moved to New York a couple of months ago from Saskatchewan or the actual Arctic Circle and doesn’t have any family to spend the holidays with and both Mary Margaret and Ruth _aww’ed_ on cue.

Emma has an absolutely God awful suspicion as to what is going on, but she refuses to even dwell on the idea and, instead, has made it her life’s goal to eat as many potato pancakes as humanly possible in this very fancy, very German, very festive restaurant that earned her another scoff from a different cab driver when she told him she needed to get crosstown on Christmas Eve.

And she doesn’t appear to be the only one set up.

Emma’s never met the rest of Elsa’s family, but she’s heard about her younger sister Anna. She’s still not entirely prepared.

Anna is the exact opposite of Elsa – loud and excitable and prone to resting her hand flat on Killian’s shoulder when she twists around him to smile at the guy sitting next to Emma. God, what is his name? Kris...something? He definitely told her.

She is the worst person alive.

Bah humbug.

And, honestly, Emma likes Anna. She’s the living embodiment of the Christmas spirit, but she keeps _touching_ Killian, even when she’s talking to Kris...something and Mary Margaret keeps asking Emma if everything is alright and Mr. and Mrs. Frosset are _definitely_ planning a wedding already and she’s almost surprised to find that her skin isn’t green.

That’s another literary reference.

“So, uh, what do you do Emma?” Kris...something asks her. She nearly chokes on her sixteenth potato pancake.

“I’m a bail bonds...person,” Emma answers, jerking up when someone tries to turn a laugh into an almost convincing cough. Killian meets her gaze straight on, mouth twitching slightly and Emma presses her teeth together until her jaw aches. “Something to add, Jones?”

He shakes his head. “Absolutely nothing, Swan. You’re out of potato pancakes.”  
  
“People eat dinner.”  
  
“A dinner of potato pancakes?”

“Is that a problem? What are you even eating?”

“I think that’s schnitzel,” Kris...something answers. Kristoff! His name is Kristoff. Emma nearly fist pumps in celebration, but that would probably draw another question out of Mary Margaret. She digs her nails into her palm instead. “Or maybe spätzle,” he continues. “I can never tell the difference.”  
  
“Spätzle is egg noodles,” Liam explains. Emma wants to punch him. Killian is still staring at her. “Schnitzel is the actual meat part. They’re totally different.”  
  
Kristoff hums and Emma’s already come up with several different ways to strangle Liam without ruining the very festive centerpiece at their very long table. “Ah,” Kristoff nods. “Yeah, that makes sense. I’ve never actually been to Germany so…”  
  
“Neither has Emma,” Mary Margaret supplies, rushing over the word so quickly she practically shouts them across the table. David audibly groans. “Interesting, right?”

“Oh, you should go Kristoff,” Anna grins. “If this is how a German restaurant does Christmas, just imagine how actual Germany does Oktoberfest, right?”

Kristoff answers her smile with one of his own and Emma’s bordering close to desperate for escape routes and freezing cold air and she’ll happily accept another frustrated cab driver if it means she can get out of this restaurant with its over-the-top decorations.

She’s worried she’s going to leave with garland in her hair.  
  
“We went,” Liam adds, nodding towards Killian whose resting his head in his hands like it’s suddenly gotten to heavy on its own. “Right little brother? A million and two years ago.”  
  
“Younger brother,” Killian bites out. “And I don’t think it was that long ago. It also wasn’t some kind of social engagement, Liam.”

“That’s true, but if memory serves there was a weekend in Hamburg when we were stationed in Italy. That was almost social.”  
  
“Almost.”  
  
Emma wishes people would stop staring at her – she can feel David’s gaze boring into the side of her head and societal rules dictate she should probably say something, but she can’t come up with any interesting facts about Germany or the entire continent of Europe and she just wants more potato pancakes.

“Swan,” Killian says slowly and he can’t reach her from the other corner of the goddamn table, even when he leans forward. He definitely leans forward. He also doesn’t say anything else.

David’s ordered more potato pancakes.

“Well, uh, Kristoff,” Elsa says, the strain in her voice obvious when she tries to redirect the conversation away from some kind of Jones brothers standoff in the middle of 3rd Avenue. “David says you just moved stateside?”

Kristoff nods and Emma tunes the whole thing out, stabbing into several potato pancakes at once until they’re more just...potato bits on her plate and she’s dimly aware of Anna’s voice asking more questions and actually sounding interested and, well, serves Mary Margaret right for trying to set her up on Christmas Eve.

There’s more talking and more questions and, probably, more wedding planning and Emma doesn’t listen to any of it, just keeps murdering appetizers masquerading as entrees.

Killian stops staring at her eventually and either he can figure out what she’s thinking and isn’t particularly interested or he’s not a complete asshole like she is because he starts answering Anna’s questions.

“Yeah, I do,” he answers and something in the back corner of Emma’s mind sparks at the tone. It sounds kind of wistful and just a bit hopeful and it’s such a far cry from that morning that she can’t help but glance up at him.

At least that’s what she tells herself.

“Really?” Anna asks, wonder in the one word and the flash of her eyes and Emma’s positive she sees Liam glance towards Mary Margaret expectantly. David stares at his plate. “And how often do you go out?”

Killian’s eyes dart Emma’s direction. She stabs a half-eaten potato pancake and tries to remember all the reasons she can’t run out of the restaurant – she’ll probably scar Robbie for life or something.

“Just about every day during the summer,” Killian says. “We’re already getting calls about events and we do, uh...tours around the harbor and…” He takes a deep breath and glances at Emma again and her heart beats so loudly she’s certain the entire island of Manhattan can hear it. Kristoff certainly can. He keeps smiling at Anna. “We’re going to do lighthouse tours this year too,” Killian continues. “If we get a good wind, The Jolly can actually get around to six lighthouses in about two hours and I’ve been talking to some lighthouse master about actually anchoring in front of an island so people can go into the building.”

“Isn’t that a great idea?” Elsa asks, widening her eyes meaningfully at Anna who nods enthusiastically. “And they’re thinking about adding another ship.”  
  
“What?” Emma snaps, yelling loudly enough that Robbie starts to cry. Ruth looks scandalized. And Emma doesn’t remember standing up. “When?”  
  
“Em,” David cautions, but she brushes him off, too busy trying to make sure there isn’t smoke coming out of her ears to care about _proper_ or the absolutely God awful first impression she’s making on the entire Frosset family.

“When?” she repeats. She doesn’t actually stomp her foot, but it’s very close.

“It’s not set in stone yet, Swan,” Killian mutters. Anna’s talking to Kristoff again, asking if he’s ever been on a boat, _ship_ , and Liam looks like he’s trying to figure out how to save this mess of a dinner, while Mary Margaret just keeps nodding towards Emma’s empty seat, silently pleading to _sit down_ again.

She doesn’t.

“It’s a good idea though,” Liam adds. “Right?”  
  
Killian sighs. “Oh my God Liam, shut up. We’ve just...well, things are going alright, we were thinking about some expansions.”

“To different cities?” Anna asks, unaware of everything that’s happening at the table. She’s way too nice. Emma’s way too bitter.

Bah humbug. Again.

“Maybe,” Killian says and Emma’s heart feels like it beats out of her chest. “It’s, well, there are other cities with water and boat-type needs.”  
  
“Ships,” Emma corrects quietly. Killian beams at her. She closes her eyes lightly, dimly aware that she’s still standing when her feet start to ache in her shoes and, suddenly, the restaurant seems very warm and very small and she’s always been very good at running – even in heels. “I’m going to go get some air,” she mumbles, pushing away from her chair and ignoring Mary Margaret’s quiet sighs of set-up disappointment and the wind hits her face painfully when she steps onto 3rd Avenue.

It’s probably going to snow soon.

Emma’s not even surprised when she hears the door swing open behind her and she really hadn’t moved that far away from the restaurant, trying to decide if she was actually going to go back in or just freeze or, maybe, argue with another cab driver.

The footfalls behind her are heavier than Mary Margaret’s and Mary Margaret is probably too busy being ashamed at the blatantly obvious set-up to play rescue. “I’m fine, David,” Emma says, not bothering to turn around. It’s her first mistake. Well, no, her first mistake was making out with Killian in someone else’s kitchen, but...semantics.

“David’s doing something particular paternal at the moment,” Killian says and Emma’s shoulders go tense. It’s starting to snow. “And I wanted to talk to you.”  
  
“About what?” Emma mumbles, rocking back on her heels when Killian takes another step towards her. “Liam’s going to be pissed if you’re not playing into the set-up.”  
  
“Screw Liam. And that entire thing. That’s…that was painful at best.”  
  
Emma shrugs, determined to keep things light and easy and not like she spent most of her afternoon thinking about that noise he made in the back of his throat when her hands landed on his back last night. “She’s nice,” Emma says. “Anna, I mean. That whole future sister-in-law thing is kind of weird, but I’m almost certain Liam teamed up with Mary Margaret on it, so I shouldn’t really be surprised.”

“She is. And she’s planning some sort of sailing extravaganza with Kristoff for the summer.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Killian hums, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. “Oh, yeah, he’s always wanted to go to Boston and she went to school in Boston and is well acquainted with tea parties and ducks or something and she moved to your seat as soon as you got up.”  
  
It’s been the strangest day in the history of all days – at least as far as Emma’s concerned. Her head is spinning and her heart is hammering and her hand’s fallen to Killian’s chest without her explicit permission. He tugs one hand out of his pocket to rest his fingers on top of hers.

“Boston?” Emma breathes and Killian does something ridiculous with his eyebrows.

“Boston,” he says, giving her hand a squeeze. “At least that’s the plan.”  
  
“There’s a plan?”

“There’s, at least, three quarters of a plan.”  
  
He grins at her – wide eyes with meaning and feeling and _Christmas_ and Emma _wants_ in a way she’s never really wanted before, but she feels like she’s on some kind of festive roller coaster and her head still kind of hurts and she’s not quite sure which way is up or down or right in the middle of romantic.

She takes a step back.

And Killian’s hand doesn’t move right away, just sort of lingers in the space where she was and, eventually, she’ll probably spend several hours pondering the meaning behind that.

“You’ve got to tell me what you’re thinking Emma,” he whispers and it sounds a little bit like a plea and just a bit desperate and he’s used her name more today than he has since she met him.

She’ll think about that eventually too.

As it is, she’s too busy _not_ thinking about anything to consider the words that are moving from her brain to her mouth until they’re spilling out of her.

It’s like everything has just dissolved to the sentence on the tip of her tongue and every emotion she’s felt in the last twelve hours has transformed into _this_ and whatever her whole body does when Killian glances her direction and she practically shouts the words at him, like she’s angry about it and she’s not really, but she’s so certain it _won’t work_ that she’s kind of frustrated and disappointed and she’s going to strangle Liam Jones and have a very serious conversation with Mary Margaret about timing.

“I love you,” Emma yells and she _does_ stamp her foot because she’s absolutely lost control of everything, including all of her limbs. “And it’s crazy and stupid and I’m pretty positive I always have and it’s totally going to fuck everything up if you come to Boston and just start sailing things and being there all the time because there’s no way I’m going to be able to deal with that.

I’ve spent all day trying to convince myself I can’t just jump you again, but if you’re around I’m going to because you’re...you spent Friday night on the couch when I was asleep and I ate, like, six of those bar things and drank half that coconut water and you just…”

She runs out of air. Again. It’s a trend she’s not particularly pleased with.

Her shoulders are heaving and her lip is bleeding again when she bites into it and Killian is staring open-mouthed at her like he’s never seen her before.

“What did you just say?” he asks and she groans loudly because she can’t go through that whole speech again when she’s trying to sink into the sidewalk. A tourist runs into her. “Emma...did you say again?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Again,” Killian repeats intently, like it’s the most important word in the world. He’s missed the point of the whole speech. “You said jump me again.”  
  
She stamps her foot again. “That’s what you’re focusing on? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Swan…”  
  
“No, no, no,” Emma shakes her head, stepping out of his arm’s reach and crashing into another tourist. She mumbles an apology that doesn’t seem to be accepted and there’s snow in her hair and the cold is starting to seep into her bones.

She’s an over dramatic mess. She’s going to drink all the wine in Patrick and Samantha’s apartment and leave extra money on their kitchen counter because that’s absolutely against the Airbnb rules.

“Emma,” Killian continues, following her when she moves towards the curb and throws her arm out to hail a cab. “Love, c’mon, wait two seconds. Talk to me.”  
  
A cab skids to a stop in front of her and Emma ignores the rush of _something_ that shoots down her arm when Killian grabs her hand. “Can you let M’s know I’ll be there at like nine tomorrow morning? I think that’s what the schedule says.”  
  
The driver’s already trying to figure out where she’s going and probably hoping she doesn’t have to go cross-town, but it’s, apparently, been a night for crushing disappointments and Merry Christmas or whatever.

Killian nods and Emma can’t read the expression on his face – a mix of disappointment and frustration and a hint of something that looks a bit like the night before. That doesn’t seem fair.

“See you later,” Emma mumbles, sliding into the backseat and directing the driver and Killian doesn’t smile when she tugs the door shut.

She’s only half certain he says something.

She tries not to think about that for several hours.

It doesn’t work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the risk of defending both Liam and Mary Margaret - their hearts are in the right place, but their timing is awful and they've spent too long listening to Killian and Emma promise "nothing is going on." Also, there's a reason Killian is so...gobsmacked? Good word. Keeping it. Back on Friday for a, mostly, finished story. 
> 
> I thank you guys enough again for every click, comment and kudos. It's been a delight. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

_Merry Christmas, Swan._

She reads the text at some indeterminate time in the morning because she never really fell asleep and Patrick and Samantha have very good, presumably very expensive wine that she finds in one of the cabinets in a kitchen that isn’t hers.

Patrick and Samantha have an absurd amount of cabinet space.

Emma briefly considers texting Killian that, but it’s probably close to six in the morning and the _Merry Christmas_ text came somewhere around two in the morning and she’s absolutely spent the last four hours considering what that means.

It means he’s not sleeping either, some slightly more mature, human part of her brain is quick to point out, but the rest of her refuses to acknowledge it and it’s a weird war or thoughts and feelings and emotions that result in an empty bottle of very expensive wine and Emma downing a handful of Tylenol before sprinting out the door because she’s, somehow, late.

She didn't really sleep at all.

And her phone buzzes in her pocket six more times on the train downtown.

She’s momentarily stunned to realize that the MTA has progressed enough recently to allow phone service on moving trains, but that’s about as _normal_ as Emma’s thoughts get because her phone buzzes again as soon as she steps onto the platform.

She nearly gets run over by a small family in matching sweaters and practically radiating adorable when she tries to pull the stupid thing out of her bag without dropping the ridiculous amount of presents she’s bought Robbie and Killian would laugh if he knew how many presents she bought a one-year-old who will have absolutely no memory of this Christmas or its schedule or the ridiculous amount of drama this whole weekend has caused.

Actually that might just be Emma.

Causing drama.

And running away.

And avoiding middle-of-the-night holiday wishes and sentiment.

Her phone makes more noise.

Emma mumbles something under her breath decidedly inappropriate for Christmas morning and a bell ringer on the corner might actually gasp at her. She rolls her eyes, immediately regretting the decision to stop in the middle of the sidewalk because she’s probably going to be bruised in several different places when people keep knocking into her and the ridiculous amount of bags she’s holding.

Killian would laugh at that too. No one in the history of the world hates stereotypical tourist decisions more than Killian Jones. _You need to blend in, Swan_ , _it’s a matter of pride_ he’d say and then flash her a smile and sling an arm over her shoulder and tug down Lafayette Street towards David and Mary Margaret’s apartment.

Or he would if it weren’t Christmas and he didn’t have things to do with his own family and there was absolutely another schedule for later that day, presumably after Robbie Nolan opened all the presents Emma bought him.

She bought him a lot of presents.

Emma doesn’t move though, just keeps staring at her phone like she could will it do...something if she keeps looking at it and it doesn’t do anything except make more noise and Killian isn’t the only one texting her.

She’s late.

Figures. She’s totally going to blame the MTA.

_Are you downtown yet?_

_Because Mary Margaret said nine was good last night or the plan or whatever, but now it’s after nine and you’re still not answering my text messages._

_David is sending photos of Robbie to the group text and you’re not in any of them._

_That sounds way worse than I wanted it to._

_David said you’re not there yet._

_That also sounds way more like stalking than I’m trying to make it._

_You know what? I almost don’t care. I’m worried, Swan, and it’s Christmas and I need you to just answer one text and let me know you’re not dead in Patrick and Samantha’s apartment because I think Airbnb can charge you extra for that and I don’t think you’ve got that kind of capital._

She laughs – in the middle of the sidewalk at the intersection of Lafayette and East Houston with tourists everywhere and bells ringing and Emma’s fairly certain she hears actual church bells in the distant like the whole moment is scripted or something. Only she’s fairly certain her teeth wouldn’t be chattering in the script.

She needs more hand warmers.

She tries not to assume that’s the world sending her a message – text or otherwise.

**I’m one-hundred percent positive I don’t have any capital. And Patrick and Samantha’s apartment is fine, although I’m sure they’ll appreciate your concern.**

Emma slams her thumb against her phone screen, hitting send before she can second-guess herself and this is, well, it’s an absolute goddamn disaster is what it is.

She shouldn’t have said anything.

She should have sat in her chair and put up with the set-up and listened to potential Jones Tours expansion plans without absolutely freaking out like...someone who freaks out at expansion plans and how much she still wants to kiss Killian Jones. Just a bit desperately.

Emma came to that realization as soon as she closed the cab door.

And thought it about nearly every time she took a sip of wine last night, so, something like, at least once, every two and a half minutes or so.

The problem with all of that, however – aside from the fact that Emma has no idea what kind of monetary compensation to leave Patrick and Samantha for their, presumably, very expensive wine – is that she’s also a greedy asshole.

She decided that at, approximately, three thirty in the morning when the room was starting to spin a little bit and the only thing on TV were infomercials and NY1 and she had no idea that NY1 still did _Weather on the 1’s_ in the middle of the night.

They did and Emma decided she was absolutely a greedy asshole because she wanted to make out with Killian in several different kitchens – hers or his or maybe one in Boston if he actually moved to Boston – but not at the expense of losing his friendship and she told him she _loved him_ while stamping her foot on the sidewalk and none of those things really added up because there was no way for them to and because that just isn’t the way the world works.

At least not for her, prone, as she is, to stealing other people’s wine.

People leave and she has to follow Christmas schedules and an obligation to be part of festive cheer and Emma keeps ignoring that vaguely rational part of her brain that made sure to point out that not everyone had left and there was a family that weekend who wanted her to be part of _exceptionally_ festive cheer and Killian had called her _Emma_ half a dozen times.

Emma wants everything in some great, big life-affirming way and it’s both terrifying and...well terrifying.

And Mary Margaret is probably under the assumption she’s dead somewhere in midtown Manhattan. Emma nearly drops her phone when it vibrates again.

_Are you ok?_

She’s fairly positive that bell-ringer person will actually call the cops on her if she just starts crying in the middle of the sidewalk and she probably already looks crazy because Emma actually nods at her phone like Killian’s standing in front of her and not several dozen blocks away. Although if the bell-ringer person _does_ call the cops, David might respond, which is almost efficient.

Emma has lost her mind.

**Yeah. Fine. Cold. Christmas-y.**

_Cold?_  
  
**It’s December.**

He probably takes a few seconds to laugh because it takes a few seconds for him to respond and Emma’s legs have decided it’s time to start walking again – if only to make sure she doesn’t get run over by tourists or arrested for loitering.

_I’m aware of the date, Swan. That wasn’t really what I was asking._

**Yeah, I’m kind of aware of that too. I...I’m sorry.**

She hits send again before she can regret it and good, that’s good. That’s mature and responsible and they can move past all of this and forget it and she doesn’t want to forget it, she wants to kiss him until she can’t see straight or he can't see straight and then just...be happy. Indefinitely.

Forever.

“Damn,” Emma mumbles, licking her lips and that’s a mistake because they immediately feel like they’re starting to chap. She hits the button for David and Mary Margaret’s apartment, teeth still chattering and fingers bordering dangerously close to frozen and that’s not a sign.

It’s not.

Neither is talking to herself. She mutters another string of curses under her breath when it takes longer than five seconds for someone to buzz her in, leaning against the lobby door when it slams behind her and trying to kick the slush off her boots.

The doorman glares at her.

Mary Margaret and David live in an apartment with a doorman.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Emma says, trying to wave an apologetic hand through the air, but she doesn’t have any hands and she can’t actually put the bags down because there’s a small lake of slush under her feet now.  
  
“Can I help you?” he asks and she’s lost all sense of Christmas spirit because she rolls her eyes in response.

There’s some vaguely sarcastic retort sitting on the tip of her tongue, but Emma’s phone makes another noise and she flashes an almost-honest smile across the lobby.

_What could you possibly be apologizing for?_

Her heart lands in the pile of slush at her feet and that’s definitely a sign or a metaphor and she can hear footsteps a few feet away, pounding down the stairs and David nearly slides across the tiled floor in front of her.

“Where you been?” he asks, but it comes out more like a screech and Mary Margaret definitely thought she was dead.

Emma shrugs. “Trains are the worst.”  
  
“Right,” David says slowly, lifting his eyebrows in a way that probably wouldn't look accusatory if it weren’t Christmas morning and Emma weren’t painfully late for the schedule. His eyes fall to the bags in her hand and her phone in the other and his eyebrows, somehow, disappear even more into his hairline, lips twitching like he’s trying to stop himself from asking questions.

“You know Robbie’s only one,” he continues. Emma rolls her eyes again.

“Yeah and how many presents did you get your own kid, over-the-top super-Dad?”  
  
“See, I know you’re trying to make it sound like an insult, but I am hopped on family and Christmas spirit, Em.”  
  
“And definitely trying to be over-the-top super-Dad at every moment of every single day.”  
  
David makes a noise in the back of his throat, not an agreement nor a contradiction and the doorman looks confused by the scene in the lobby. Emma takes a deep breath, but her lungs don’t really feel big enough for the amount of oxygen she’s trying to pull in and that’s kind of been the theme of the weekend.

He takes a step closer to her, resting both hands on her shoulders and she bites back another _dad_ quip because it’s Christmas and she ran at coconut water already and Emma really just wants someone to promise her it’ll be fine.

She can have her Christmas candy and eat it too.

Or however that’s supposed to go.

“You want to talk about it?” David asks, laughing softly when Emma winces. He kisses her forehead and doesn’t even make a noise when he tugs her towards him, every single one of Robbie’s presents crashing against his side.

He just holds onto her and lets her press her face into his shoulder blade and wraps his fingers around the back of her head like he’s trying to make sure she knows she’s _ok_ and _safe_ and she’s a grown woman with, at least, _some_ capital, but, well, it’s nice and maybe a little festive in a Christmas on the Hallmark Channel or Freeform, the new name for ABC Family, kind of way.

Emma doesn’t move. She just twists her arms and tries to hold onto David until she’s more certain of his steady presence in front of her than just about anything else.

He kisses the top of her head again.

“She went out this morning and bought really fancy hot chocolate so she can make that coffee-chocolate mix you like,” David mutters into her hair and Emma makes some kind of ridiculous noise that may be a mix between a sigh and complete acquiesce to the power of Christmas.

“She didn’t have to do that,” Emma says, but it’s mostly into his t-shirt.

David scoffs. “Please, I think at one point she debated actually walking up town to apologize in person. It took nearly fifteen minutes of promising you’d still show up this morning to get off that particular track.”  
  
She expects it, but also kind of doesn’t and it’s a weird line to walk, especially when Emma pulls back to find David smiling knowingly at her. “You thought I’d still show?” she asks.

He scoffs again, but there’s even more disbelief in it this time. “I had some Christmas-based hope and I knew you’d totally gone all out and bought a million and two presents for Robbie because of who you are as a person.”  
  
The heart Emma’s still fairly certain is sitting in disgusting New York City slush seems to start beating out in extra time, like it’s trying to work its way back into her body.

“Vaguely bitter and freezing cold?” she asks and David’s answering scoff turns into something closer to a growl.

He squeezes her shoulder and scrunches his nose slightly and it’s almost painfully similar to the face Robbie makes when he’s hungry. Emma bites her tongue so she doesn’t laugh – and tries not to make a mental note to tell Killian because she’s still not sure what the rules are and he didn’t think she should apologize.

She has no idea what that means.

“Alright,” David says, a _snap_ in his voice that sounds particularly _police_ and authoritative. Emma widens her eyes. “You’re going to stand here and listen to me for two seconds and then we’re going to go upstairs and you’re going to leave your boots in the hallway because, honestly, did you walk here...there’s no way your socks aren’t soaked through.”  
  
“Focus, Detective.”  
  
“I bought you wool socks.”  
  
“Well you’ve the ruined the surprise now. Christmas is pointless.”  
  
David levels her with another stare and Emma grins, something that feels like genuine happiness settling in the pit of her stomach. She’s never really had a _dad_ and David probably wouldn’t appreciate being thought of as her dad, but he’s doing a pretty good impression of one at the moment and it’s kind of nice to be so visibly cared for.

And her socks are absolutely soaked.

“You going to listen?” David asks, all _serious voice_ and he scowls when Emma salutes in response. She still hasn’t let go of her phone.

“This was a misplaced attempt to make sure that everyone had some kind of picture-perfect Christmas,” he continues. “And it was over the top and just a little pushy and Mary Margaret really did write out the schedule, but you did seem genuinely excited to see Robbie and Killian mentioned something about taking him to the ship later today and maybe getting you out on the water or, at least, on the ship and...well, you know Mary Margaret, she’s a sucker for a happy ending. Because we’re happy and I knew that Liam was thinking about proposing and, well, they’re happy and you and Killian are...kind of on the outside looking in on that sometimes.”  
  
“That’s kind of a rough,” Emma mutters. David lets out a put-upon sigh and her eyes are going to get stuck if she keeps rolling them and she left the Tylenol in Patrick and Samantha’s apartment. Ruth probably has some in her purse.

“It’s also kind of true.”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“I’d like to point out right now, that I had nothing to do with the set-up. I really did only bring Kristoff because he just moved here and had nowhere else to go last night. My intent was so far away from Mary Margaret and Liam’s it’s practically in Saskatchewan.”  
  
“Is that where he was from?” Emma asks and David groans.

“Weren’t you listening? Actually, don’t bother answering that, I know you weren’t.”  
  
“You are on a rude roll.” He waves a hand through the air and Emma’s not sure she’s ever seen David so... _so_. It’s some kind of Christmas apocalypse that he disagreed with Mary Margaret about anything. “And,” she adds. “I knew Mary Margaret and Liam teamed up on that. They weren’t even subtle about it.”  
  
“They want you both to be happy. They’re going to forgo subtlety when it comes to the most important people in their lives.”  
  
“I think both you and Elsa outrank either me or Killian.”

“Anyway,” David says. “You are you and you guys have...well, let’s just say that three years ago there was talk of a betting pool about love and relationships and when it would eventually happen.”  
  
“Jeez.”  
  
“Mary Margaret’s been half convinced you guys have been secretly dating for years. Have you been secretly dating for years? Because that would almost explain everyone’s reaction last night. Killian looked like he was going to strangle Kristoff.”  
  
Emma doesn’t expect that. She’s fairly certain she’s going to get hypothermia from her socks. “What?” she breathes and David’s eyebrows pinch.

“What do you mean what?”  
  
“I mean exactly what the Merriam-Webster definition of that word is. What are you talking about?”  
  
David takes a step back so he doesn’t actually laugh in her face and if Emma weren’t still standing in a puddle of slush with potentially frost-bitten toes she probably would have appreciated that. “Oh my God,” he laughs. Emma momentarily considers punching the smile off his face, but figures the doorman probably wouldn’t appreciate it and it’s not really Christmas-appropriate. “You really don’t know.”

“That didn’t sound like a question.”  
  
“It absolutely was not. Em, are you serious? That was a question.”  
  
“I have no idea what is going on. All I know is that M’s tried to set me up with one of _your_ friends on Christmas Eve when all I wanted to do was eat potato pancakes and while, maybe, her heart was in the right place, she needs to move that heart immediately and try not to bring it back to that location.”  
  
“That was very convoluted.”  
  
“I think you kept up.”  
  
David nods, the smile still lingering on the corners of his mouth. The doorman is absolutely eavesdropping. “I did,” he agrees. “You, on the other hand…”  
  
Emma narrows her eyes when he trails off again, shrugging like that will get him to finish his thought, but he just throws his head back in laughter, mumbling something that sounds a lot like _idiots_ and _Christmas_ under his breath. “C’mon,” he says eventually, nodding towards the staircase behind him. “Once Mary Margaret decided not to actually walk to Central Park last night, she sat in the living room and hand-wrote you an apology note. It’s in an actual stationary envelope and everything.”

Mary Margaret does, eventually, give Emma the envelope and it’s got her name written in beautiful script and she’ll probably keep it forever or something. The word sorry is used two dozen times as is the promise to _stop interfering_ and Emma hugs Mary Margaret for at least thirty seconds straight when she finishes reading it.

And David gives her the socks as soon as she walks in the door, mumbling facts about temperature and its effect on the human body, until even Ruth tells him to relax. And Ruth lets Emma hold Robbie for most of the morning because Emma’s fairly convinced Ruth has always had some kind of sixth-sense when it comes to her.

“You should tell him,” Ruth says, shooting a conspiratorial glance over her shoulder when Emma walks into the kitchen for her fourth mug of hot chocolate and coffee hybrid.

Emma feels her eyebrows jump and the breath gets caught in her throat, but that may be because Robbie has grabbed a fistful of her hair and he may not remember his first Christmas, but he’s already got a fair amount of strength in his tiny, little hand.

Ruth grins, flipping a towel over her shoulder and shrugging. It looks exactly like David. And probably like Robbie...eventually.

Emma’s practically feeling prophetic.

And vaguely nauseous. But that might be because she's about to drink her fourth mug of hot chocolate and coffee hybrid.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Emma mumbles and Ruth nearly guffaws. Emma holds onto Robbie a little tighter – he yanks on her hair.

“You should tell that to the rest of your face,” Ruth smiles. “And you’re not the only one.”  
  
Emma wishes the entire Nolan family would stop speaking in code. “You and your son need to consider being more direct in these conversations.”  
  
“And you need to consider acknowledging the fact that you know exactly what I’m talking about. He didn’t come back.”  
  
“Who? Killian?”  
  
Ruth hums, eyes flashing over Emma’s shoulder when another set of footsteps enters the kitchen and Mary Margaret has been quiet all morning, but that might be because Emma hasn’t let go of her kid once. “Hey,” Mary Margaret starts, a cautious look on her face that sends a flash of guilt down Emma’s spine. “You....no, to answer your question. He didn’t come back.”

“I’m going to go work on my directness,” Ruth announces, flashing Emma another grin and brushing a kiss against her cheek before ducking down to tickle her fingers against Robbie’s stomach. His laughter seems to bounce off the kitchen walls.

“I…” Mary Margaret starts, but Emma shakes her head and the words seem to fall out of her again.

“I told him I love him,” Emma says. She doesn’t rush over it this time, says it evenly and, maybe, almost calmly, but Mary Margaret doesn’t seem to be in the same headspace and Emma’s concerned about the state of her friend’s jaw.

Mary Margaret blinks. And closes her mouth. Only to open it again. Six more times.

“You kind of look like a fish,” Emma mumbles. She’s bordering on laughing, but that may just be because the exhaustion that is finally creeping up on her and she doesn’t think caffeine actually affects her anymore.

That’s probably not healthy.

Killian would probably know.

She should really talk to Killian.

Mary Margaret lets out an exhale that sounds like she’s been holding it in for most of her life. Emma tries to smile. “When?” Mary Margaret asks. “Last night.”  
  
“Yeah, uh, post set-up and just before I ran away.”  
  
“Ah, well, he did too, so…”  
  
“I don’t understand that part.”  
  
David cackles from the living room. “Oh my God,” Mary Margaret mumbles, leaning around Emma to grab one of the several dozen candy canes scattered around the apartment. “You want the straight part or the hook?”

“Hook, obviously.”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“What did you mean he ran away too?” Emma asks, the words mumbled a little bit when she’s also trying to eat a broken candy cane without cutting her mouth apart. “He...I mean he was still standing on the sidewalk when I left.”  
  
Mary Margaret shakes her head. “We’ve got to go back for a second. I am very confused. I mean, of course you love him, that’s been obvious between you two since the dawn of time, but when did you figure it out?”  
  
“What do you mean between you two? And the dawn of time?”

It sounds like David has fallen off his chair. Mary Margaret scowls, but her shoulders droop when she looks back at Emma. “You really don’t know?” Emma makes some kind of noise and Mary Margaret takes a step towards her, wrapping her fingers around her shoulder and squeezing several decades worth of emotion into her.

“You’re, like, the center of Killian’s entire universe,” Mary Margaret says, as if it’s blatantly obvious and that slightly rational corner of Emma’s brain seems to agree with her. “He’s...I mean he stares at you like every cliché in the book and then some that aren’t published yet. He was holding your hand when Liam proposed.”  
  
Emma’s whole body feels like it’s short-circuiting. And definitely suffering from whiplash because her mind has tried to process all of these things and, at one point yesterday morning, was fairly certain of each and every one of them, but he didn’t _remember_ and he didn’t do anything...except text her half a dozen times because he probably knew she’d freak if he just showed up at Patrick and Samantha’s apartment again.

He absolutely knew that.

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles, wrapping both her arms around Robbie like some kind of one-year-old buoy in the metaphorical waves of holiday emotion.

“And you guys blew off ice skating yesterday,” David shouts. Emma’s eyes feel like they’re going to fall out of her head.

Mary Margaret tilts her head, waiting for the immediate retort, but it never comes and she’s back to blinking. “Did...what happened yesterday?”

“At least eight-hundred thousand things,” Emma sighs. “I...well this is kind of your fault because you brought me to a themed bar a million years ago and I remembered and you guys were so obsessed with the schedule and we got our picture taken with Santa and there were really strong drinks and Killian wouldn’t let me pay for the cab and the rat hierarchy is confusing.”  
  
“The rat hierarchy?”  
  
“What happens to the rats when the Nutcracker Prince becomes a real human again and there’s no Swan Lake or wherever they went?”  
  
“I think you’re confusing Tchaikovsky’s,” Mary Margaret mutters, but Emma brushes her off. She’s on a roll. And she can’t stop talking.

Again.  
  
“We never figured it out,” she continues. “We were drinking and talking and the Titanic was involved and he kept touching my cheek and then suddenly we were making out in Patrick and Samantha’s kitchen and he was staying the night and he bought off-brand coconut water. And it was...God, M’s it was good. Like _good_ and he camped out on the couch on Friday night without telling me just so I wouldn’t be by myself and I’ve...you asked me when I knew?”  
  
Mary Margaret nods. “I drove to New York. After Walsh and I broke up. He told me to come and he took me out on the Jewel and he started sailing again after that and I…” Emma shakers her head, breathing heavily and trying to find her center of gravity when she can hear David join the melee in the kitchen. “We’re friends,” she adds lamely. “We’ve always been friends and I can’t...he’s thinking about moving to Boston and what am I supposed to do if he’s there all the time? In person. Not just some supportive text presence?”

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Mary Margaret says and there’s a certainty in her voice that catches Emma by surprise. It shouldn’t. “I'm still confused, though, why did you think he went to Rockefeller Center?”  
  
Emma sighs, leaning back against the counter until it presses painfully into her spine. “There was a lot of rum involved and, uh…” She clicks her tongue, embarrassment creeping its way through her and she doesn’t meet Mary Margaret’s eyes when she finishes the story. “Well, he didn’t remember leaving the bar or paying for the cab and he certainly didn’t remember making out in Patrick and Samantha’s kitchen and I just kind of…”  
  
“Emma’ed it,” David finishes, wincing when Mary Margaret smacks at his shoulder.

“Yeah kind of,” Emma admits. “And then there was the set-up and he was pissed that I basically shoved him out the door and I wasn’t even remotely prepared for Boston, so I ran out, he followed me, I basically yelled _I love you_ in his face and then hailed a cab.”  
  
“And he didn’t come back,” Mary Margaret chips in.

“I don’t know why.”  
  
“Emma, oh my God.”  
  
“He didn’t remember, M’s! I mean, there was a lot of alcohol involved, but you’d think something would have stuck or he would have said something else post-declaration.”  
  
“He didn’t say anything?”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “I told him it would be difficult to not jump him again if he’s living in Boston and he seemed very confused by that and then called me _Emma_ several times.”

Mary Margaret glances at David, but he shrugs in response and Robbie seems intent on pulling all of the hair out of Emma’s head. “I’m going to say something,” David warns, holding up his hands in pre-announcement surrender. “I have a theory about why Killian was trying to break Emma’s hand during the engagement.”  
  
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Emma asks. David growls. “Fine, fine, continue.”  
  
“You can’t drop Robbie when I tell you.”  
  
“Explain your theory, Detective.”  
  
“You know whose ring that was?” Emma nods slowly. Mary Margaret looks confused. “I think he had plans for that ring.”  
  
“You’re being vague on purpose.”  
  
“Give me my kid and I’ll tell you what I actually think.”  
  
Mary Margaret gasps and Emma can almost hear the gears audibly click into place. “Oh my gosh,” she shouts. “Yes! Yes! Exactly that!”

“He didn’t actually finish, M’s,” Emma mutters, but Mary Margaret is already tugging Robbie out of her arms and possibly levitating with joy and romanticism.

“So let me finish then,” David grins. “I think Killian’s been obviously in love with you since we got married, has been living in some kind of almost romantic pining middle for years where he’s convinced himself that it’ll be ok if you guys are just friends and that’s enough because it’s better than scaring you off, but seeing his brother use his mom’s ring to propose when he hasn’t quite been able to get over the idea of using that same ring to propose to you was kind of a shock to his entire...life.”

Emma’s glad they made her give up Robbie. It feels like every muscle in her body loosens as the words seem to seep into her and her whole _being_ feels incredibly warm like she’s just been jumpstarted and she’s not sure that metaphor even makes sense, but her toes are warm in her brand-new wool socks and she’ll take whatever sign she can get at this point.

None of them move – except Robbie who can’t seem to stop moving – and Emma licks her lips, fully aware that both David and Mary Margaret are waiting for the explosion, metaphorical or otherwise. “Right,” she breathes, jerking her head up and smiling. Mary Margaret might be crying. “So...I’m going to go.”  
  
Mary Margaret lets out a noise somewhere between a whoop and just the actual embodiment of _glee_ and David’s chest seems to puff out in pride. Ruth shouts _finally_ from the living room, the sounds of Jacob Marley’s ghost in the background.

“Go,” Mary Margaret says and Emma’s already tugging her boots back on and halfway out the door when she hears something that might be _and don’t follow the schedule later_ lingering in the air behind her.

He’s not at Liam and Elsa’s.

It throws her for a loop which makes it seem like Emma had more of a plan than just sprinting to Liam and Elsa’s and banging on the door until a slightly confused Mr. Frosset opened it still wearing what, at first glance, appeared to be a matching pajama set.

There’s tinsel everywhere and Emma’s heart lurches at the sight because it’s almost as _family_ as the apartment she just ran out of and Killian isn’t there. Liam tells her four times before Elsa swats at his shoulder and tries to smile encouragingly at Emma.

“We opened presents, he took a travel mug of coffee and said he needed some air,” Elsa says softly, leaning against the frame of her still-open front door.

“Aren’t you cold?” Emma asks and she’s wasting time. She has no idea where to go next. This was her only idea. It was only half an idea.

She absolutely can’t catch her breath.  
  
It’s way too cold.

Elsa makes a contradictory noise and shakes her head. “Nah, never really bothered me. It wasn’t that long ago though,” she adds, widening her eyes meaningfully. “He can’t have gotten that far.”  
  
“Or you could call him,” Liam shouts from what sounds like the kitchen and it smells like Pillsbury cinnamon rolls when the wind whips down Fulton Street. Elsa rolls her eyes.

“He left his phone here,” she mutters. “In an effort to get away from us so he wouldn’t yell at Liam again and possibly scandalize my mom.”  
  
Emma can feel her eyes widen and it kind of hurts in the wind. The cinnamon smell seems to intensify. “Was he scandalizing your mom?”  
  
“Eh,” Elsa mumbles. “Only in that my mom absolutely thought you two were already dating from the stories and was slightly scandalized to find out that Liam and Mary Margaret were tag-teaming over-the-top holiday set-ups.”  
  
“Jeez.”

“There were best interests considered,” Liam yells. “Mary Margaret and I made a pro and con list too.”  
  
“He’s been appropriately chastised, promises to stop interfering and agrees that he should have told Killian he was going to use their mom’s ring before he actually did,” Elsa lists like she wrote that out too.

Emma’s mouth goes dry. It doesn’t have anything to do with the wind. Or the way she gasps when she loses her footing on a front step that isn’t covered in snow or ice. Elsa smiles again. “He really can’t have gotten that far,” she repeats. “Couple blocks at most. That way.”

She nods in an eastward type direction and Emma’s a goddamn idiot. “Oh, shit,” she breathes, earning a low chuckle out of Elsa and, possibly, Liam, but he’s probably frosting Pillsbury cinnamon rolls by now. “Right ok.”

Elsa’s practically beaming by the time Emma all but leaps down the stairs and starts sprinting down the block, determined to ignore the way her lungs burn as she tries to pull in freezing-cold air and it’s, somehow, even colder when her feet land on wooden planks and South Street Seaport is eery when it’s deserted.

Or maybe that’s just because she feels like her lungs are on fire.

It’s a weird counterbalance to how cold her fingers are. She should buy gloves. Her toes, meanwhile, are perfectly fine in brand-new wool socks.

Emma spins on the spot, eyes scanning the distinct lack of a crowd and the waves that crash against the edge of the dock a few feet in front of her.

It’s quiet – except for the goddamn waves and her own haggard breathing – and she bends forward, resting her hands on her knees to try and get her pulse back to normal and, maybe, make sure her knees don’t actually give out.

He’s not here either.

“God fucking hell,” Emma mumbles, her own voice sounding foreign to her ears. She’s an idiot. The biggest idiot. The _Christmas_ idiot.

Who says _I love you_ – shouts I love you, really – and then just walks away? No one. At least no one with normal relationship ideas and expectations and Emma doesn’t have either, but she thought maybe…

She thought he’d come back to the water.

She kind of thought if she got here she could fix it and tell him and maybe not run away and it’d be nice not to run anymore because she’s clearly out of shape.

It’s an insane train of thought.

Unless....

Her feet are moving before the sound of her boots landing on the dock even reach her ears and Emma’s running again, but maybe running toward something is different than running away from something and the lock on the gang plank gate is almost questionably easy to pick.

She tugs a pin out of her hair and flicks her wrist a couple of times, letting out a not-so-quiet _whoop_ when she hears the telltale click of success. And she’s half a second away from breaking and entering and using _sweeping romance_ as a verb when she hears a familiar set of footsteps and that’s _definitely_ a sign.

Merry Christmas.

“Swan?”  
  
Emma’s whole body freezes and she’s not sure if the moisture in her eyes is from emotion or the wind or the way his voice seems to crack on her name like he’s half convinced he’s just imagining her there – breaking and entering on Christmas morning.

Killian takes another step towards her and someone should talk to whoever is in charge of South Street Seaport because the whole dock seems to creak under them and she’s still holding a pin in her hand.

“Emma?” he asks and there are tears on her face and her teeth sink into her lip and breathing is more difficult now than it was on her multi-block sprint a few minutes before. “Are you...are you breaking onto my ship?”

She lets out a sound that’s bordering far too close to manic to belong in whatever romantic situation she’s hoping they’re working towards and she nearly jumps out of her own skin when a hand lands on her, Killian’s thumb tracing across her shoulder blade as he tries to turn her around towards him.

“Yes,” Emma answers. She’s back to shouting words in his face. It is, at least, symmetrical.

Killian grins at her, the movement slow across his face like he’s trying to let it sink into his bones or her bones or the goddamn fossils that are probably under the water they’re standing above. “Why?” he asks, soft and intent and it doesn’t sound like a demand, but a bit more like his pleas to understand _again_ the night before. “And did you pick that lock?”

Emma nods slowly, not sure what else to say and it doesn’t matter at all because it takes four not-quite even breaths, three waves crashing against the dock, two blinks and probably a partridge and a pear tree before Killian tilts his head and kisses her.

It’s different than it was in the kitchen – far less alcohol lingering between them and neither one of them wavers or shakes or does anything except tries to occupy the same three feet of space at the same time.

It’s different, but just as overwhelming and there’s a distinct lack of hesitancy when Emma hums against Killian’s mouth. She can still feel the smile on his lips, but she stops thinking about that as soon as his tongue traces over her lower lip and she’s fairly certain she’s melting when he makes some kind of noise that might be a growl and his fingers are tight on her hip.  

He’s so goddamn warm it should be some sort of medical miracle, like her own personal heat source and Emma’s clearly been spending too much time reading Mary Margaret’s Christmas schedule because it’s easily the most sentimental thing she’s ever thought in her entire life.

She stops thinking about Mary Margaret when Killian manages to find another half an inch of space between them and she’s nearly standing on his toes, but he doesn’t seem to mind and they fit very well together.

Emma pushes up, hoping she’s not actually standing on his shoes, to try and get some leverage, slinging her arms over his shoulders and her fingers trace over the back of his neck, letting her nails rake through his hair. She absolutely does not expect him to wince.  
  
“What?” Emma gapes, eyes wide and lungs staging some sort of biological-protest again. She can’t think of any other words, dread landing in the pit of her stomach quickly and immediately until she meets Killian’s gaze and he looks, well, he looks a little bit like a kid on Christmas morning.

He kisses her forehead. “Your fingers are freezing,” he whispers, pulling his hand away to wrap around one of her wrists and it’s good it’s so cold because it absolutely prevents her from melting, again, when he starts brushing kisses across her knuckles.

“Yeah,” Emma breathes, licking her lips when Killian glances up at her and it’s all blue and _sweeping romance_ and it almost gets completely ruined when she nearly kicks over the travel mug at her feet. “I um...I think my gloves are still in Boston.”

“Did you get the socks?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The socks. The Amazon reviews were really good. Apparently someone wore those on Mt. Everest. I’m not sure I believe it, but they were better than everything else I looked up.”  
  
Emma’s lungs will probably appreciate when it is no longer Christmas and she is no longer stunned by every word every single person she knows keeps saying to her, but, for the moment, they’re strained again when the air seems to audibly catch in her throat. Killian smirks at her. “Did you…” Emma starts. “Were the socks from David actually from you?”  
  
“No, no,” he shakes his head. “They were definitely from David. He bought them, but only after I told him. He claims you’re very difficult to shop for. I don’t see it.”  
  
“You don’t?”

He shakes his head again, lower lip jutted out slightly. “I know you,” he says simply and maybe, for the first time in the history of _ever_ it is.

“Yeah,” Emma agrees and eventually her voice has to stop doing that stupid, _breathless_ thing. She’s sure of it. “Yeah, you do.”

Killian kisses her again, brushing his lips across hers and it's like the world rights itself. Emma chases after him, instincts and want kicking in and he might laugh under his breath or maybe that’s her and she’s suddenly struck with the realization that she is _happy_. Merry Christmas, indeed.

“You never told me why you were trying to break onto the ship, love,” Killian says and Emma’s heart expands and explodes and one nickname has never felt so incredibly important.

“I, uh...I was looking for you. I went to Liam and Elsa’s, but they said you left and I just figured…”  
  
“You knew.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma nods. “I guess I did.”  
  
“I...I think I terrified Elsa’s mother. And I don’t think her father was very impressed with the words I started shouting last night.”  
  
“Was there shouting involved?”  
  
Killian nods. “Some. At Liam, but most of it was just me being pissed off at myself for letting you leave and then being fairly certain what would happen if I followed you uptown and wondering how many text messages was too many text messages to be bordering that line between friends and…”  
  
“Is that what we are?” Emma asks and it’s the biggest, most important question she’s ever asked in her entire life.

“God, I hope not.”  
  
Emma laughs, a giggling, _happy_ sound that seems to wrap around both of them and maybe fix the creaky dock and make the facade of the questionably large TGI Friday’s at South Street Seaport less obnoxious. She burrows her head against his shoulder, wrapping both her arms around his waist and she definitely steps on his left shoe at some point, but Killian doesn’t object, just holds on as tightly and whispers something that might be words in her ear.

“What was that?” Emma asks, mostly into his jacket.

“What happened when we got home on Saturday night?”  
  
Her stomach lurches and he still doesn’t remember and Emma’s not sure if this is a step back or just the kind of open, concise honesty that leads up to some sort of life-altering relationship. “I don’t think Patrick and Samantha would appreciate you claiming their studio as home,” she points out.

“Yeah, I don’t really care about either Patrick or Samantha,” Killian grins. “You were there, it counts as home.”  
  
It’s a miracle she stays upright and doesn’t just pull him somewhere, _anywhere_ , with four walls and a door that closes and, hopefully, locks, but Emma’s legs don’t want to work and Killian’s smiling cautiously at her like he _hopes_ and she does too and not being friends is going really well.

“That was romantic,” Emma mumbles.  
  
“That was the general idea.”  
  
“You really don’t remember?”  
  
He shakes his head and the disappointment is almost palpable. That’s not as romantic. “Trust me, love, I’ve tried. I went to goddamn Brooklyn yesterday in some sort of last ditch attempt to jog memories and it just left me wondering why I didn’t kiss you in the bar when that was the only thing I was really thinking about all night.”  
  
“Not the rat hierarchy.”  
  
“Absolutely not.”  
  
Emma lets out a huff, but it’s not nerves, it’s _normal_ and them and maybe not being friends doesn’t mean they have to stop being friends. That’s nice, if only a little confusing. “Uh, well, that’s because you waited until we got home.”  
  
Killian’s eyebrows shift and his lips part slightly and it’s slightly distracting until he’s breathing out the word _what_ like he’s been holding onto it for years. Emma nods, one side of her mouth tugging up. “Yeah,” she says. “You wouldn't let me pay for the cab and we got back to Patrick and Samantha’s and we were both, well…”  
  
“Drunk.”  
  
“Yeah, decidedly. And I was trying to talk about rats and the longevity of the toy universe in that piece of garbage cartoon and then you told me to stop talking and then we were, uh, well we made out in Patrick and Samantha’s kitchen.”  
  
His eyebrows shift again, something closer to incredulous than amused in the arch. “Fucking hell,” he mutters and that is, hands down, the last thing Emma expects to hear.

“What?”  
  
“Fucking hell, that is…” Killian trails off, eyes moving skyward and Emma feels his chest move when he takes a deep breath that seems to last several sunlit days. “I’ve been waiting three years to kiss you again and I don’t even remember it. That’s seem unfair.”  
  
She was wrong before.

That’s been a trend for the weekend.

“Again?” Emma asks and now this symmetry thing is kind of annoying. “I don’t...what?”

Killian flushes and it’s adorable and makes Emma want to ignore _again_ in favor of now, but she’s stubborn and curious and he knows both of those things better than anyone. “You remember how we met, Swan?”  
  
“Obviously. Mary Margaret and David got married and I didn’t understand why you were there or making quips about how obvious it was that I was freezing and there was a very well-tailored suit and a lot of champagne and…”  
  
It dawns on her suddenly and _again_ seems to bounce around her brain and sink into her soul and, well, _fucking hell_ seems oddly appropriate even on Christmas morning.

“We’ll circle back around to very well-tailored suits in a second,” Killian promises, letting his hand trail over Emma’s back while she tries to set the record for most blinks in a single, sweepingly romantic moment. “But this is more about a lot of champagne.”

“Is it?” Emma asks and Killian makes a significant face. “I don’t…”  
  
“Oh, I know you don’t,” he laughs. “The distinct radio silence on that particular front for the last three years has been a fairly strong indication.”  
  
Her jaw aches from hanging open for so long, but she can’t quite keep up with the speed of her thoughts and she’s circled right back to insane and idiotic. “Wait, wait, wait,” she stammers. “I don’t...what happened then?”  
  
“Your memories are fairly on point for most of the night, love. There was champagne and suits and a very well-tailored dress as well and a bit of dancing and, at one point, there was a hallway and you and us and and a good amount of kissing and I have thought about that…”

Killian clicks his tongue like he’s trying to do the math and Emma punches his shoulder. He catches her wrist and kisses her knuckles again and he can’t seem to stop kissing her.

She doesn’t mind.

“At least four times a week for the last three years,” he finishes. “But, well, you made it rather clear you had no intention of anything else, love. The phrase _one-time thing_ has been plastered on my brain since then and I wasn’t...I could see the walls like they were right in front of me, Emma. And I couldn’t scale them yet, so we went back upstairs and you fell asleep with your head on my shoulder and it was like watching some of the foundations crumble a little bit and I hoped.”

“That’s romantic too,” Emma mutters.

He hums in the back of his throat, brushing the tips of his fingers across her forehead and tucking a piece of hair behind her ear and it’s quiet and simple and absolutely hopeful. “Yeah, it is,” Killian agrees. “I didn’t think you’d call. Or text. And I thought Liam was going to throw me in the river for awhile after, but then you did text and it was...well, the walls were still there, but there were battering rams or ladders involved now.”

“You’ve watched Lord of the Rings way too many times.”  
  
“But now you’re able to make Lord of the Rings references in conversation, so it seems like all that time with the extended editions was worth it.”  
  
Emma scoffs, but her heart is still beating too fast and her legs are starting to cramp from standing in one place for too long. She rests her palm flat on Killian’s chest, half positive she can feel his own slightly faster-than-normal heartbeat. It might just be the sentiment. Or Christmas.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asks eventually. It comes out a bit like an accusation. She’s kind of asking herself too. “I mean did you…”

It seems absurd that she can’t finish the question – they’ve, apparently, made out three times now and her _I love you_ is still ringing in the minimal amount of space between them – but Emma is still Emma and Killian knows.

“I wanted to know you,” he answers, shrugging as if it’s an admission. “And you let me. I didn’t, well, I was a greedy bastard because I wanted everything, but wasn’t willing to give up anything and then you came to New York.”  
  
“That’s happened a lot.”

“No, you have, but that weekend. After Walsh and the ship and we were here and you fell asleep on my shoulder again. I knew for sure then.” Emma lifts her eyebrows and tries to be patient and it doesn’t work because Killian laughs and kisses her, quick and hard and she feels it in her still-warm toes. “I love you,” he says, barely pulling away from her mouth to mutter the words.

It doesn’t matter.

She hears him perfectly.

She absolutely jumps him – quite literally. Emma’s feet leave the dock and Killian's arms wrap around hers out of instinct and her legs crash against his in a way that would probably be painful if she weren’t so full of adrenaline and the Christmas spirit and _he loves her back_.

Of course.

They’ve gotten very good at this in a very short period of time or, maybe, they’ve always been good at this and neither one of them can seem to stop moving their hands, trying to commit every single move and every single sound and every single second to memory.

“I’m sorry,” Killian mutters, but the words don’t quite make sense when Emma starts peppering his face with kisses and he’s laughing and she’s, somehow, standing on her own again. “For yesterday and not following.”  
  
“I know why you did.”  
  
“I know how you kiss,” he grins. “I would have followed you if I thought you wouldn't…”  
  
Emma shakes her head and moves her hand again, pushing against him like she’s trying to will her certainty through her arm and straight into him. “I’m not,” she says and is pleasantly surprised to find the world doesn't end when she means all five letters as a promise. “As long as you want…”  
  
“Emma,” he interrupts and that’s the second time he’s done that. “Yes or always or indefinitely if you’ll have me. Any of those extensively long adverbs.”  
  
“You think they’re adverbs?”  
  
“Don’t you?”  
  
“I don’t know, actually. Maybe we should ask Mary Margaret. Or Ruth. She’d probably know.”

She could probably get used to his answering smile for _always_ or _indefinitely_ or the rest of her goddamn life. “I don’t want to ask Mary Margaret or Ruth anything, for, at least, the next twenty-four hours.”

“What do you say to playing Christmas hookie and possibly going ice skating later, then?”  
  
“What? Are you...is this a date?”

“Yes,” she responds easily. Killian’s smile gets bigger. It starts to snow again. “Absolutely.”

He pulls her hand away from his chest, lacing his fingers with hers and tracing across the back of her palm like he’s taking stock of every inch of her. “We should get you gloves,” he mutters. “You’ll freeze otherwise.”  
  
“I think we’re capable of doing that, right?”  
  
It’s a loaded question. Killian knows. “Always and indefinitely.”

“Ok,” Emma whispers and they don’t ever fix the lock in front of the ship.

There’s not really a plan, but Killian doesn’t ever let go of her hand, even after he buys gloves from a bodega that is, still, inexplicably open and they get coffee that’s only slightly bitter and walk back up Broadway until Emma’s teeth start to chatter.

It makes him laugh and he tugs his hand away just long enough to wrap his whole arm around her shoulders and mumble something about _having a plan._  The plan turns out to be the exact type of overpriced midtown hotel he was trying to avoid by staying with Liam and Elsa – a fact Emma is quick to point out, but Killian is even quicker to dismiss because they _can’t go back to Patrick and Samantha’s tonight_.

She doesn’t argue that.

And really, after the grand, sweeping romanticism of the day and breaking and entering and five-dollar gloves that probably won’t last much longer than one ice skating escapade, getting a hotel room and using a hotel room seems to be the next logical step.

Only neither one of them spent much time sleeping the night before and it takes about five minutes on an incredibly comfortable bed in an absolutely tiny room for Killian to kick his shoes off and try and tug Emma’s boots off before she mutters something about how  _you'll_   _dislocate your shoulder doing that_ and another two minutes before they’re both asleep with her head on his shoulder and his arm tight around her waist.

They wake up in the dark with blankets, somehow, draped over their legs and there are sirens and car horns and Killian’s hand moving across her back with a purpose that makes Emma’s heart flutter and her breathing pick up.

It happens slowly and quickly at the same time and it doesn’t make sense, but it also makes a hell of a lot of sense because they’ve waited and hoped and been absolute goddamn _idiots_ about the whole, stupid thing.

She whispers _I love you_ into the curve of his neck and he promises indefinitely several different times and several different ways, particularly when his fingers duck under blankets and in between her legs.

“Swan,” he breathes and Emma smiles. The bed creaks and knocks against a headboard that is probably as old as the entire island of Manhattan, but there are still sirens and car horns and Emma doesn’t worry about any of that when she feels Killian trailing kisses down her neck and they both mutter _wallet_ at the same time.

It’s strange to laugh when everything seems so decidedly serious, but Emma supposes that’s what makes it important and she doesn’t care about any of the specifics when Killian so goddamn good at kissing her.

“You’ve got to move,” she mumbles, trying to twist them and there’s more laughing and more kisses and he does eventually move and so does she and the sirens are nothing compared to the pounding of her pulse in her ears when she swears she sees stars.

“We can’t fall asleep again,” Killian mutters later, laying on his back and his hand is still moving, but the patterns he’s drawing on Emma’s back are light and he keeps letting her hair fall through his fingers.

“I don’t want to move.”  
  
“I am starving.”  
  
She scoffs, twisting her head against his chest and pressing a kiss directly where her lips land. His hand doesn’t stop moving. “Why weren’t we better prepared?”  
  
“Spur of the moment decisions.”  
  
“No it wasn’t,” Emma whispers and that feels like a promise too. She’s certain she can hear Killian smile.

“Good.”  
  
Nothing is open because it’s nearly nine o’clock on Christmas and even midtown Manhattan seems to take a few hours to pause and they make due with vending machine finds and four bottles of Diet coke and Killian grumbles when Emma breaks into the hotel-provided coffee for the next morning.

They last a few sips of soda and two possibly expired granola bars before they’re kissing again and they sleep for several more hours before they actually finish even one bottle of Diet Coke.

Mary Margaret _yelps_ when they walk into day-after-Christmas brunch half an hour late and Killian’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes because they went back to Patrick and Samantha’s so Emma could shower – the hotel shower dissolved into something else entirely rather quickly – but he resolutely refused to go back downtown and, well, if that weren’t enough of a sign, both of them resolutely refuse to let go of the other’s hand.

Elsa beams and even Anna looks like she’s enjoying this decidedly romantic display and David elbows Liam when he doesn’t say anything. “Thank God,” he grins and Killian rolls his eyes, but Emma just laughs and tugs him to the seat next to her.

Right where he’s always been.

“I love you,” she says softly once the table returns to _normal_ conversation and Killian squeezes her hand.

“That’s the only part of the schedule I cared about,” Killian says, ducking his head and kissing her. He ignores the table and the exclamations about _public displays_ , waving his free hand at the rest of them and Emma smiles against him when he adds, “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back to the makeouts! I am clearly incapable of writing an Emma and Killian that don't just make out all over Manhattan. Everyone's going to remember things from now on. As always, I can't possibly thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos. It's the absolute nicest. One more chapter - and Killian's POV coming up next. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

“They’re going to be here soon.”  
  
“They can wait.”  
  
“They absolutely cannot. Mary Margaret will pick the lock.”  
  
Killian scoffs, but he can’t quite bring himself to argue because Mary Margaret might actually pick the lock and absolutely has a key and there’s always the possibility that David can pick the lock or Liam will just kick down the door and they probably only have few hours until all Christmas-hell breaks loose.

Except not that at all. The opposite of that. All Christmas...excellence? That seems like the wrong word, but Killian’s running on approximately four hours of sleep and half a dozen handwritten schedules and, maybe, for the first time, both he and Emma understand where Mary Margaret was coming from all those years ago.

“If Mary Margaret picks the lock this afternoon, I’m going to make them all stand outside for at least an hour,” Killian promises, wrapping an arm around Emma’s waist and tugging her back towards him when she actually tries to get out of bed.

She lets out a not-so-quiet yelp that he swears he can feel in every inch of him, but that may just be how freezing cold her feet are and she’s not wearing any socks.

“Swan,” he continues, mumbling the nickname into her hair and he grins when Emma’s breath audibly hitches. “How could your feet possibly be this cold? Where are the socks?”  
  
It’s become a _thing_ – in some kind of absurdly romantic way that almost makes sense when trying to explain how socks can be romantic, but he keeps buying them for every single holiday and every birthday and Killian’s not all that worried about what it looks like when Emma beams at him as soon as she rips apart the wrapping paper.

She’s some kind of wrapping-paper monster.

It makes his heart grow every single time, he’s positive.

“I have told you eight-hundred times I’m not wearing socks in bed,” Emma mumbles, but there’s a hint of a laugh in her voice when his fingers find skin and that particularly ticklish spot right by her hip bone. Killian grins, nosing through her hair until his lips find skin too and her laugh turns to something decidedly different that they absolutely do not have time for.

“I don’t think that’s entirely fair, love,” he argues and he should probably figure out what time it is. They absolutely don’t have time for this. “You’re refusing to wear socks on some kind of principle and I’ve got to suffer the consequences. And your feet shouldn’t be that cold if you’ve spent the majority of the night in bed under the vaguely ridiculous amount of blankets we own.”  
  
“You’ve bought most of these!”  
  
It’s another fact and another string of purchases that don’t make much sense, but their house is old, or, at least, old enough that, sometimes it feels like they’re living in the tundra and it takes forever for the heat to kick in and Killian is nothing if not determined.

And a bit paranoid.

About Emma’s feet. And the house. And the people in the house.

He pushes up on his elbow, a thought taking root in the back of his brain and he’s fairly positive he knows why Emma’s feet are freezing cold.

“What time?” Killian asks, fingers still moving and Emma tries to burrow against him in a way he’s come to find nearly as heartwarming as her penchant for destroying wrapping paper.

They’d always been incredibly tactile with each other – even before _that_ Christmas and South Street Seaport and Killian sometimes wonders if Emma knows that he keeps the receipt from that overpriced midtown hotel in his wallet.

Probably.

Absolutely.

And he’d always been a greedy asshole because he was constantly trying to brush his fingers over her, tracing across the curve of her shoulder or the back of her wrist, but that was nothing compared to _after_ that Christmas and the kind of life they’d just settled into over the last three years.

He wants to kiss her...constantly.

And Emma, _God_ , it’s exactly what he’d thought of that very first night after too much champagne and well-tailored wedding clothes and she’s constantly freezing cold, but she’s also constantly trying to move as close to him as possible, particularly under the small mountain of blankets they’ve accumulated since they’ve moved into this absolutely ancient house.

It’s simple and easy and not simple and as challenging as anything he’s ever done and sometimes Killian blinks a few times just to make sure it all doesn’t just disappear in front of him.

It doesn’t.

And the house is painted blue.

Emma doesn’t answer him and he’s almost forgotten his fingers are still tracing across her stomach until she makes another noise, rolling her shoulders in attempt to push him off her. It doesn’t work.

“I’m not hearing anything that resembles actual words there, Swan,” Killian mumbles and she makes another noise, a scoff in the back of her throat that isn’t a word either. “You’re proving my point, love. What time?”

Emma growls, pressing one freezing, cold foot against his calf and Killian nips at the curve of her neck. He winds up with hair in his mouth. “Soothsayer,” she accuses, flipping around and both her feet kick into his knee and one of the blankets winds up on the floor. “How’d you figure it out?”  
  
“I haven’t. All I have is a hunch. You haven’t actually confirmed my theory.”  
  
“Can you just use hunch and theory interchangeably like that?”

Killian shrugs, or at least tries, resting on his side and letting his hand rest flat on her hip and Emma’s feet might as well be ice blocks sitting on the bottom of the mattress. “I’ll ask Mary Margaret when they get here.”  
  
“Which is probably going to be very soon. There’ll be some kind of familial scandal if someone breaks into our house and then finds us in bed still.”  
  
“That is absolutely the last thing I care about,” Killian promises. “The truth now, Swan. What time and how long? And why not put socks on when you’re getting out of bed? You could take them off when you come back to maintain whatever we’re trying to maintain and then I won’t worry about your circulation quite so much.”  
  
“Why do you have so many questions about this? It is a ridiculous amount of questions.”  
  
He flashes her a smile, something he knows _works_ because Emma presses her lips together tightly and widens her eyes like she’s trying to _tell him something_ and Killian tugs her even closer to him. “I’m a rapt audience when it involves my girls’ sleeping habits,” he mutters and he can just barely see her roll her eyes before he ducks his head and kisses her.

They’ve gotten incredibly good at this, some kind of rhythm that sort of feels like falling into _normal_ or just her and both of those things are incredibly sentimental, but it’s Christmas and Emma didn’t sleep much, so Killian feels like he can get away with it.

Her fingers find the back of his neck, nails scraping lightly on skin and it draws some kind of absurd noise out of him and that was absolutely the point. They both know it. There is, after all, a rhythm.

They’re a mess of limbs and somehow still-freezing extremities and Killian grins when he somehow manages to hitch her leg over his hip and they stop worrying about timing and scandal for, approximately, three and a half seconds.

The baby monitor on the nightstand seems to screech to life and they both leap back, blinking quickly and jerking towards the sound. “It’s like she just knows,” Emma mumbles and Killian can’t quite hold back the laugh because she absolutely _knows_ and it would almost be frustrating if it weren’t also just a bit impressive.

“Maybe she’s the wizard,” Killian ventures and Emma flops back dramatically on the pillows, eyelashes fluttering when she tries to take a deep breath.

“Yer a wizard Cee,” she mumbles, throwing an arm over her face and Killian feels the smile on his face like it’s carved there and that’s not very Christmas appropriate either.

The monitor is still making noise and there’s a crash on the speaker and down the hallway and Emma groans again. “This throwing thing has got to stop,” she says. “Webby was a frequent casualty of our two in the morning meeting.”  
  
“Two in the morning?” Killian echoes, pressing a kiss to Emma’s temple and she hums noncommittally. “Swan, wake me up.”  
  
“This is literally the first time you haven’t woken up as soon as I shift in bed or, like, take a deep breath that’s not entirely quiet. It felt like some kind of miracle that it didn’t happen last night. Or this morning. Whatever. It was fine.”

“How long did you let your feet freeze?”  
  
“This is so not about my feet.”  
  
“Isn’t it?” Killian challenges, eyes darting back towards the open door and the hallway and he’s momentarily impressed with the clearly obvious strength of their daughter’s lungs.

“I honestly have no idea,” Emma admits. “It’s the first time this has happened in, like, a week, and a half right?”  
  
Killian nods. “Nearly two.”  
  
“I can’t believe you know that off the top of your head.”  
  
He shrugs, but Emma nearly smiles and that’s kind of the point and if there’s one thing he’s constantly aware of it is absolutely every single thing that has happened in Cee’s entire life. It’s somewhere close to _over the top_ , but he can’t really help it and neither can Emma and Killian knows she’s absolutely been filling out that baby milestone book Mary Margaret bought her and trying to hide it in the back corner of the closet.

She thinks it’s too sentimental.

It’s goddamn perfect is what it is. He doesn’t say that out loud. That would probably be weird to say about his own kid.

“We hung out for awhile and there were some quiet mutterings and pleas to stop crying and it worked for a bit,” Emma continues. “And then it didn’t work and then we fell asleep in the chair and Webby ended up on the floor, like, sixteen times.”  
  
“I’m going to tell David that.”  
  
“Don’t do that, he’ll just buy a new stuffed animal instead and then we’ll have to find a place for even more stuff.”  
  
“Poor Webby,” Killian intones. “A casualty of the great Cee throw it on the ground phase.”  
  
“It’s way too early to be quoting things.”

The noise from the room just a few feet away seems to amplify, as if their daughter is personally offended she’s not immediately being acknowledged and Killian grins in spite of himself. “And maybe this is a sign that she’s going to be some kind of softball star or something. Isn’t that an Olympic sport again?”  
  
“I don’t know and I’m not sure if that’s a question Mary Margaret has the answer to.”  
  
“She absolutely does not,” Killian says. “I’ll look it up in a second. Make sure we’ve got some kind of softball plan after we deal with Christmas morning meltdowns.”  
  
Emma’s already trying to push the blankets off of her again, rolling her head on the pillows underneath her and she snaps her jaw when Killian presses lightly on her shoulder. “What are you doing?” she asks, but he just moves his head and brushes his lips against hers and she doesn’t ask anymore questions.  
  
Her eyes are closed again.

“Go back to sleep, love,” Killian says. It sounds a bit like a command. It kind of is. “I’ve got it.”  
  
“She’s probably hungry.”  
  
“That’s not a problem.”  
  
Emma cracks open one eye, like she’s trying to piece together a very specific type of puzzle. Killian grins, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and tugging the blankets up until they’re tucked under Emma’s chin and she doesn’t try to argue because she’s absolutely freezing and they both know it. “There are gross potatoes in the fridge,” Emma mutters, flipping back onto her stomach and the words wind up in the pillow.

Killian’s heart grows eight-thousand sizes and he’s already about as far away from _grinch_ as possible, but he seems to jump even a few more feet away from fictional character as soon as Emma’s eyes close again.

“I don’t think you can just call them gross potatoes, love,” he says, grabbing a shirt from the top of the dresser behind him. “Sweet potatoes are almost festive.”  
  
“They’re gross.”  
  
“You’re not eating them.”  
  
“Still gross.”  
  
He laughs, running his hand through his hair and he can already see Emma’s breathing starting to even out. “I’ll make sure to pass that along.”  
  
It’s not quite freezing in the hallway when he steps out, but Killian still winces when his feet hit the hardwood and, not for the first time, he curses the sometimes faulty insulation of the ancient, giant, _blue_ house they bought.

He doesn’t run to Cee’s room, but his walk is leaning a bit closer to _brisk_ than _casual_ and the crying has evolved into something that sounds a bit more like the tail end of a meltdown and something that almost resembles hiccups.

She’s not quite standing up, but an effort has definitely been made, the tiny fingers on her right hand gripping one of the bars on her crib and Killian bites back another laugh – or possibly an over emotional sob – because Cee definitely perks up when the floor creaks and he walks into the room.

“Hey there, Cyg,” Killian mutters, crossing the room in four steps and Cee responds with a string of mumbled almost-syllables. He tugs her out of the crib, one arm under her legs and fingers tracing over her back the same way they’d been moving across Emma’s arms a few minutes before. “Why you waking your mom up in the middle of the night like that?”  
  
She doesn’t answer, naturally, just grips the front of his t-shirt like she’s trying to throw that too and Killian’s eyes flit towards the ground, searching for Webby. The stuffed duck has found its way underneath the rocking chair in the corner of the room and he’s absolutely impressed.

“You know, Uncle David is not going to appreciate it if you’re destroying his gifts,” Killian continues, keeping up patterns on Cee’s back until the hiccups all but disappear and he kisses the top of her head.

He gets more hair in his mouth – blonde streaks that are far lighter than Emma’s now, but, she promises, almost match up perfectly to her younger self and that quiet admission, muttered in that very same room when Cee refused to sleep _at all_ for the first month after they moved into the house.

Emma and Killian slept on the nursery floor for two weeks straight, refusing to walk even the few feet from their bedroom to Cee’s when there was so much crying and confusion at this brand new, sometimes _freezing_ space and that was when he started buying blankets.

It was actually fairly comfortable by the end of it.

Cee makes another decidedly eight-month-old noise, legs kicking just a bit when she realizes she’s not standing in her crib anymore and Killian mumbles nonsense in her ear, quiet promises and questions and something that might just be _Merry Christmas_ several times.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Killian continues, moving back towards the hallway and changing the thermostat takes some adjusting on his part, but he keeps talking in Cee’s ear and there’s no crying on their trek from nursery to kitchen to living room and high chair.

Emma tells him constantly that he _makes faces_ – he did with Robbie and he absolutely does with their daughter, but it’s some kind of subconscious thing and some kind of deep rooted desire to get Cee to laugh as much as possible and if making faces is a prerequisite he’s not entirely opposed to it.

Particularly when it seems like most of the sweet potatoes end up on Cee’s chin.

“What are we doing?” he asks softly, the grin still on his face and Cee lets out a noise that’s closer to a shriek than the words they’ve been working towards for the last few weeks. “I thought we were making food and sleeping progress.”  
  
There’s more babbling and more hands slamming on trays and sweet potato, somehow, winds up on his t-shirt.

“You’re going to wake up the whole neighborhood,” Killian grins, the container of absolutely disgusting smelling food empty and he’s only slightly hopeful that most of it got eaten. It’s probably going to stain his shirt.

Cee makes more noise and there’s definitely laughter when Killian pulls her out of the chair and presses kisses across her stomach. “We were supposed to have a deal, little love,” he adds. “We get through that month of no sleeping and your mom and I have twisted muscles for probably the rest of our lives and then we all agree to sleep consistently from here on out. All the websites promise you’re supposed to have object permanence now. We didn’t sign up for sleep regression. That’s not part of the arrangement.”  
  
She babbles in his ear and tugs on his t-shirt and he probably should have taken off the t-shirt before holding onto her as tightly as he is because now they’re probably both covered in sweet potatoes.

Killian hopes he doesn’t smell like sweet potatoes for the rest of the day.

He walks them further into the living room, dropping onto the corner of the couch and letting Cee rest against his chest when he slides down. It probably isn’t doing his muscles any favors.

He absolutely will not complain.

“You know you’ll have an entire family ready to do your bidding later this afternoon,” Killian whispers and it might be the most truthful thing he’s said all morning. Except about how Emma absolutely should have put socks on before she left the bedroom.

Maybe they’re even.

“That’s right,” he says when Cee makes another noise. His arm is starting to ache a bit from overuse, but that seems like a small price to pay when there’s this tiny, perfect weight on top of him and he’s only slightly worried he’s going to fall asleep.

He hopes Cee falls asleep.

“Uncle Liam and Aunt Elsa think they’re sneaky, but Uncle David told me last week that they scandalized the UPS man when he came to drop off all the presents. They probably had to rent a bigger car. And it’s all for you, Cyg. You’re incredibly popular.”  
  
The arm of the couch is pressing painfully into his vertebrae, but Killian’s fairly certain Cee’s half a second away from a post-sweet potato nap. Until she, suddenly, isn’t. He moves – trying to shift so his spine isn’t forced to realign on the couch – and that is, apparently, the wrong decision because it jostles Cee and they’ve jumped out of _content_ to _howling_ so quickly, it’s like they teleported there.

“No, no, no, no,” KIllian mutters quickly, rubbing his hand up and down Cee’s back in a desperate effort to not wake Emma up and keep his ear drums intact. “We just went over this, Cyg, we had a sleeping deal. Mom’s asleep and we’re going to get back to sleep and we’ve got at least a few hours until we’ve got to acknowledge the schedule. We can do this.”  
  
Cee quiets just a bit the longer he keeps talking and Killian smiles towards the ceiling. When Emma was pregnant she claimed Cee was particularly attuned to his voice – _She’s playing favorites, Jones and it’s stupid and unfair, but if it gets her to stop kicking me in the spleen, then I need you to start reading the phonebook_.  
  
It never got that far and that might have been because Killian bought books instead, staging some sort of pre-parenthood induced and anxiety-driven attack on the second-hand bookstore a couple blocks away from the docks in downtown Boston.

The woman behind the counter absolutely thought he was insane.

He didn’t look at titles, just bought half a dozen books based on particularly eye-catching covers and Emma made fun of him for that for, at least, a week after, but then Cee started doing somersaults one Thursday night in November and Emma demanded a story.

They read the entire _Belgariad_ series and made it halfway through the _Mallorean_ sequel before Cee was born and, eventually, they’d read the whole thing over again and maybe write a letter to David Eddings’ estate because it worked and Emma got some sleep and Killian got invested in another fantasy epic.

Maybe Cee could forgo her Olympic softball career and turn the _Belgariad_ into a movie.

“You want a story is that what’s happening right now?” Killian asked, tapping his fingers on Cee’s back. She kicked her foot into his chest. “Ok, this is my favorite one. Once upon a time, your mom tried to break onto one of my ships…”

* * *

They stay in New York for another two days after Christmas and it costs him a metaphorical arm and a leg, but Killian can’t bring himself to care about whatever this whole thing is doing to his overall credit rating when he keeps waking up to Emma Swan next to him and her hair in his face and freezing cold feet twisted up with his.

He buys more coconut water and they get to Rockefeller Center eventually, causing some sort of rink-wide panic when they stop on the ice and kiss and, at least, four people crash into them. Emma’s feet move underneath her and she brings him down with her, grinning when he groans as soon as his knee crashes onto the ice.

“I’m trying to come up with a joke about sea legs here,” she mutters in her ear and he kisses her and that causes more of an incident and they don’t tell anyone that security suggests they leave the ice. Strongly. For the foreseeable future.

He stands in the middle of Penn Station with her until some PA announcement claims she can get on the stupid train and go back to stupid Boston and it feels like the air gets ripped out of his lungs when he sees how glossy Emma’s eyes have gone.

“I love you,” Killian says and it doesn’t get easier the more he says it because it’s been true for as long as he can remember, but his pulse still does something stupid as soon as the words are out of his mouth and Emma’s teeth sink into her lower lip.

She licks her lips before she pushes up on her toes and he’s the one who nearly loses his footing when Emma tugs him towards her. They probably draw a few more stares, but he’s far too busy trying to cement the moment into every single corner of his memory to be worried about post-holiday tourists and his hands land on her hips and it’s like the world gives them a second for _this_ before trains and two separate cities.

Again.

He’s still trying to get the oxygen back into his lungs.

Emma’s still on her tiptoes and her head is tucked into his shoulder, but he can feel her take a deep breath and he hears the words perfectly even over another _all aboard_ announcement. “I love you too,” she says. “Just...this sucks.”  
  
“It does.”  
  
“Text me when you get home, ok? Or, you know, call when you get to Stamford?”  
  
Killian nods, kissing the top of her hair and moving his fingers move up her spine and he’s not sure if he’s trying to hold onto her because he’s trying to prove a point or just stage some kind of decidedly romantic moment in the middle of Penn Station. “I can do both of those things, Swan.”  
  
There’s another announcement and a questionable amount of coconut water in her bag and she’s biting her lip again when she pulls back to look at him. “Deal.”  
  
He texts her as soon as he leaves Penn Station.

_Is this weird?_

**I was about to text you, so, I mean by comparison...maybe just a little clingy.**

_I think I can cope with that._

**Yeah, me too.**

She texts him the entire train ride back to Boston.

Not much changes because they’re still friends and he still wants to make sure she gets home when he knows she’s got stakeouts and she still wants to hear about the painfully rich and their issues with linen choices on The Jolly.

There is, however, the rather fantastic addition of getting to kiss her whenever he wants.

And, four months later, he and Liam sign their names on another expansion project and a ship in Boston Harbor that’s a bit more historic because Boston feels a bit more important than anything else Killian has ever done.

“You good?” Liam asks as soon as they walk away from the docks and Killian’s already got his phone out. He barely hears him. He does, however, feel the elbow in his side, growling in response when he nearly drops his phone.

“Jeez, what the hell?” Killian gapes, stopping in his tracks.

Liam rolls his eyes. And smiles. Definitely smiles. “Are you good?”  
  
“I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”  
  
“Are you this frustrating with Emma? This is infuriating.”

Killian doesn’t answer, just moves his thumb across his phone screen and tries to decide what exactly to do next. He should probably make a list. Liam’s still talking, but it just sounds like white noise in the back corner of Killian’s brain and Emma’s probably asleep because she didn’t get home until somewhere in the realm of three in the morning the night before.

She got the guy.

“Killian,” Liam snaps, kicking at his ankle for emphasis and he tries not to punch his brother in the face. It seems wrong to do that after they just bought a ship.

In Boston.

He’s moving to Boston.

“God, what?” Killian asks, matching Liam’s scowl with one of his own. “I’ve got the number breakdown at home of everything we did in Newport the last two years if that’s what you’re trying to talk to me about. I know the woman at the bank was asking you about that.”  
  
“You were on your phone.”  
  
“I have ears. And the ability to multi-task.”  
  
“Could have fooled me.”  
  
“Ass.”  
  
Liam grins, clapping him on his shoulder and Killian’s momentarily taken aback by that particular display of familial affection. “You just used the word home,” he says and maybe that eyebrow thing is hereditary.

Killian makes a mental note to tell Emma that. When he isn’t still desperately trying to figure out what Liam is saying. “Use words,” he demands. “Actual sentence structure.”  
  
“You’ve been talking to Mary Margaret.”  
  
“Not about that,” Killian mutters and it’s too many words and he, clearly, can’t multi-task because Liam looks like he’s frozen. The air seems to get stuck somewhere between Killian’s lungs and his throat and it hurts like hell, but not nearly as much as the vice-like grip Liam has on his shoulder, like he’s holding on to make sure that both of them are still there and it’s a strange line to walk because he’s still happy and hopeful and he absolutely used the word home.

“For how long?” Liam asks, but it still sounds like a demand and Killian tries not to be too frustrated by that.

“Not long. And there’s nothing, you know, nothing’s actually been bought. I mean...I don’t even have somewhere to live once we start sailing here.”  
  
Liam moves his eyebrows again – full of judgement and disbelief and Killian rolls his shoulder until his brother’s arm crashes back to his side. “You are the world’s biggest idiot, you know that?” Liam chuckles, grabbing his own phone and typing out a message that’s probably a complete play by play of this conversation for Elsa. “And I won the bet.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“Elsa owes me twenty bucks and one trip to Shake Shack.”  
  
“I can’t believe you want to go to Shake Shack.”  
  
“It is a New York staple and the one on 3rd Avenue is almost constantly empty.”  
  
“It’s weird that you know that.”  
  
“You tell Emma you’re moving yet?”  
  
Killian twists his wrist, like that’s an answer and Liam tries to kick at his ankle again. “God, stop trying to attack me,” Killian grumbles. “I’m going to tell Elsa and then the bet is null and void and you won’t get your overpriced cheeseburgers.”  
  
“Delicious cheeseburgers,” Liam corrects. “And shakes. As, you know, the name implies. Plus, if you tell Elsa, that just makes you a tattle and that’s not a great start for whatever great, big adult plan you’re falling into. Also you should tell Emma in person. At home. Which is what you just called her apartment. I think.”  
  
He doesn’t want to blush because he’s not the thirteen-year-old kid who called long distance to ask his brother how to plan a date when he was stationed somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, but it doesn’t seem to matter what Killian wants because he does and Liam laughs and then pulls him into a hug that’s so tight he’s momentarily worried about the state of several different internal organs.

“I’m proud of you,” Liam says and the words seem to sink into the very center of Killian and they haven’t moved that far away from the docks so it’s still windy, but he barely even notices when every single emotion seems to move through his veins. “And, uh, I’m sorry for thinking this wasn’t exactly what you were always going to do. It’s...even the idea of a set-up was stupid.”

Killian lets out an exhale, which seems biologically impossible considering the state of his lungs, but Liam just keeps smiling. “Thanks,” Killian mumbles, pulling his gaze up and _pride_ seems etched on every inch of Liam’s face.

“Now get the hell out of here and go home.”

He runs back to Emma’s apartment, tugging out the key she gave him when he got there three days before because _it’s just easier_ and both of them seemed determined to ignore that particular conversation.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, both hands wrapped around a mug and her head snaps towards him when the doors slams back into the frame. “Historic, huh?” Emma asks, grinning over the mug and she’s wearing one of his shirts, hair piled haphazardly on top of her head.

It makes his heart pound and his knees feel a little less certain.

Killian nods, toeing out of his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket and Emma stands up at the same time – slow, measured movements and he only briefly considers the precarious position she’s left the mug on at the edge of the coffee table before she’s in front of him and his hands are on her waist and his lips are on hers and nothing else really matters.

He tugs her up and she laughs against his mouth when her feet aren’t entirely on the floor anymore and they’re moving towards...something. He doesn’t really care what as long as they can sit down and he can keep kissing her and maybe do something about the ridiculous amount of clothes they’re both wearing.

They land on the couch with a soft thump and more laughter and limbs that are perilously close to being dislocated in an attempt to tug off clothing and avoid falling on the floor.

“This is a disaster,” Emma laughs when Killian’s head bounces against the arm of the couch. They nearly knock over the mug half a dozen times. “We’re usually much better at this.”  
  
“I wasn’t expecting you to be awake,” Killian counters. It just draws more laughter out of Emma and they bought another ship. “You got in late, that’s all I meant.”  
  
“Oh, I know what you meant. And I slept for a little while, but then my phone went off several times in a row and it sounded like I was under attack, so I actually acknowledged it and there was, apparently, history to be made.”  
  
Killian smiles, mostly so he doesn’t start spouting sentimental nonsense in her ear or, possibly, just screaming it in her face and this couch was clearly not made for two adults to lay across. “It’s only the ship that’s historic, love,” he corrects. “Or maybe the amount of money we spent.”  
  
“Did that totally freak Liam out?”  
  
“Absolutely, although he was too busy being an idiot to focus too much on it. And I think the bank lady kind of terrified him.”  
  
“The bank lady?”  
  
“Yeah, you know...the one in charge of loans and businesses and she wants copies of all our numbers since the dawn of time.”  
  
“Seems awfully demanding,” Emma grins and doing anything except kissing her seems insane. Killian is not insane.

She hums against him and he’ll probably think about that, like, every time he goes to work because he’s moving to Boston and it’s absolutely because of Emma and he bought another ship because of Emma and he hopes she knows that she’s changed his entire goddamn life.

He’ll probably mention that at some point.

Maybe after he schedules a few more things with Mary Margaret.

“You’re distracting you know,” Emma mumbles, tapping a thumb against his cheek and they probably both look like idiots with the amount of smiling they’ve been doing for the last five minutes. “You’ve got to tell me about the bank lady and demands and did you talk to the register people?”  
  
He can’t shake his head when his neck is propped up at an angle he was, until a few moments ago, certain was impossible and Emma’s fingers find their way back into his hair. “You’re making distracting accusations when you’re doing it yourself, love.”  
  
“That’s not an answer.”  
  
“I told Liam all the numbers were at home and I’d give them to him at some point tomorrow.” Emma’s eyes widen and the smile seems to settle on her face almost quietly like she was waiting for him to admit to that particular part of the conversation, but is still just a bit surprised when it plays out that way. “Actually, I don’t know about that last part. This whole conversation’s gotten a little muddled in the last couple of minutes.”  
  
She arches an eyebrow and the smile turns into something closer to a smirk and maybe they can make the couch thing work if he could just figure out a way to unpin his right hand. It’s twisted underneath her hip. He’s half convinced his wrist is broken.

“Only the last part?” Emma asks and there’s a hesitancy to her voice that makes every single one of his muscles clench. She tugs her lip in between her teeth and her eyes fall down to the hand she has pressed against his chest. “And you ignored the question about the register too. Isn’t the ship a historical…something?”  
  
It’s not one of their most well-formulated conversations – mostly because he keeps kissing her instead of answering her with actual words like a normal, adult human being who’s getting ready to move to goddamn Boston – but Killian’s fairly certain he gets his point across when Emma somehow ends up on top of him.

“Something,” he mutters and the word is nearly choked out when Emma rolls her hips. “God, Swan, that’s absolutely distracting.”

She smiles and it lands in the space between his ribs and it’s warm and hopeful and _indefinite_ and maybe he’ll call Mary Margaret again later that week. They don’t actually get off the couch.

It’s late by the time Emma starts mumbling about _starvation_ and _ordering Chinese_ , shadows twisting across the floor of her living room and Killian’s fairly certain his phone is close to dead at this point. He’s ignored every single text message.

“Where’s your phone, love?” Killian asks, nearly landing on his head when he tries to climb off the couch without kicking her in the face. “I can call.”  
  
He’s halfway to the kitchen – she’s got a habit of leaving her phone next to the coffee maker after stakeouts, dropping it there when her mind’s not quite caught up to the rest of her movements – when he feels her fingers wrap around his wrist, catching him short and he’s not entirely prepared for the look on her face when he glances over his shoulder.

It kind of feels like jumping into Boston Harbor.

“What’s the matter?” he asks softly, pulling his hand out of her grip and sinking onto the edge of the coffee table. He nearly sits on the mug.

Emma bits her lip again, eyes looking anywhere except him and she’s definitely blushing as much as he was with Liam. That almost feels symmetrical. “I mean, nothing really because you already…”  
  
“I already what?”  
  
“I mean you told Liam.”  
  
Maybe it feels like being _thrown_ into Boston Harbor.

“I don’t know what you mean, Swan,” Killian says slowly, trying not to rush over the words and give up the plan or the schedule and he shouldn’t have talked to Mary Margaret. She’s God awful at keeping secrets. “Also no, I haven’t talked to the register because they apparently only work four hours on odd days and only when the moon is in retrograde or something.”

She lets out a shaky laugh, blinking quicker than normal and the joke almost works. “I don’t know enough about space to make a comment on the validity of your moon claim.”  
  
“I promise it just means it’s impossible to get in contact with the Boston history masters who are clearly not impressed with my degree at all or our ship.”  
  
“It’s yours now though, maybe that’ll help.”  
  
“Maybe,” Killian admits, lacing his fingers through Emma’s and he grins when her whole body shudders as soon as his lips brush over her knuckles. “What’s the matter, love?”  
  
She blinks once and the ends of her lips quirk. “Nothing.”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
“Killian.”  
  
“I’m serious, you nearly pulled my wrist out of its socket.”  
  
“I’m one-hundred percent positive I don’t have that kind of upper body strength.” He tilts his head, reaching his left arm forward to brush a stray piece of hair behind her ear and Emma’s eyes flutter shut. “God, that is cheating,” she grumbles. “And you said it in New York too. I just figured we should...maybe make it official. If you want.”

He’s found his way out of Boston Harbor – metaphorical or otherwise – and Killian grips Emma’s hand tightly, trying to process what exactly they’re talking about.

Home.

They’re talking about home.

“Yeah,” he says, answering a question she hasn’t actually asked yet.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Emma argues. She swings her legs over the side of the couch and, well, it was only a matter of time. Her left foot hits the side of the mug and there’s hot chocolate-coffee hybrid soaking into the side of Killian’s dress pants before he can leap off the table. “Ah, well, fuck,” she mumbles, shaking her hair off her shoulders and there’s chocolate-coffee hybrid working its way across floorboards and under the couch and Emma’s bare toes.

“Where are your socks, Swan?” Killian asks.

She rolls her eyes. “I really think that is the last question you should be asking right now. Do we own paper towels?”  
  
“I think they’re on top of the refrigerator.”  
  
It takes them both half a second to realize what she’s just said and one of his socks soaks through when Killian takes a step towards her, landing in the chocolate-coffee hybrid puddle. He doesn’t care.

He kisses her.

Again.

Or maybe the other way around.

“This is the worst possible way to do this,” Emma mutters against his mouth. “I had this whole plan and something about how you already had the key and it seemed pointless to give it back. It was very romantic. I came up with a whole schedule in the bug last night.”

It’s as if the whole world resets and everything is laid out at their feet – drenched in chocolate-coffee hybrid or otherwise. “I didn’t need a schedule, Swan,” Killian promises, but it’s difficult to say anything more when she just starts peppering kisses across his face.

“I really want you to move in with me.”  
  
“That works out fairly well since I really want to move in with you too.”  
  
He moves in on a Tuesday in May and it’s warm and sunny and neither one of those things are signs, but they both kind of feel like signs and they order Chinese food with unopened boxes surrounding them and fall asleep on the couch with Emma’s head on Killian’s shoulder.

The ship, finally, gets acknowledged as _history_ a year after they start sailing in Boston Harbor and talking about tea parties and stamp acts and it’s going great, perfect, _better than any of them hoped_ , even with the projected numbers Killian eventually gives to the bank lady.

It’s good. It’s great. It’s perfect. It’s as easy as he expected and as frustrating as he expected because Emma is woefully bad at putting laundry away and she absolutely despises when he tries to watch Lord of the Rings with the captions on and he wouldn’t change a single thing, even a year later.

And Killian’s just finished an event – there are rich people in Boston as well, with very specific thoughts on linens and American history – kicking his shoes into the corner as soon as he hears the door click back into its frame.

It’s dark and he didn’t expect Emma to be home yet, but he can hear sounds coming from the hallway and there’s a light in the bathroom, barely visible through the door that’s only half closed. He doesn’t take his jacket off before he starts walking.

“Swan,” Killian calls and he’s fairly certain a burglar wouldn’t be sitting on their bathroom floor with the door half open and slightly shaking shoulders when he moves into the room.

Emma glances up, leaning against the side of the shower with one leg stretched out in front of her and redder-than-usual eyes. He stutters for a moment, not sure what exactly is going on, but that doesn’t last long and it only takes another moment for Killian to crouch in front of her and tug her hands apart.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, ducking his head into her eyeline when she just responds with a strangled noise. “Emma?”  
  
Her laugh is shaky at best and she looks even more nervous than she did when she asked him to move in so he squeezes her hand and tries to ignore the images of a very specific type of box sitting in the back corner of the closet.

“This is insane,” Emma mumbles, pulling away one of her hands to drag a knuckle under her eyes and that just leaves her cheeks even more red and mascara-streaked. “We were...oh damnit, it’s because I got that cold a couple weeks ago. This is your fault. I went to the doctor because of you.”

She blinks, at least, three dozen times, shaking her head like she’s trying to convince herself of something and Killian follows her gaze when it darts towards the tiny trash can tucked in the corner.

It takes exactly six seconds for his neurons to appropriately fire or however thoughts and general human cognizance works and then Killian’s the one mumbling words and none of them are exactly coherent, but he can’t really settle on a single thought that isn’t just kissing his girlfriend.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” Killian mumbles and there are kisses in between the words and possibly in between the letters, but he thinks he sees the hint of a smile on Emma’s face.

“You have to at least let me say the words,” Emma chastises. She’s definitely laughing and absolutely smiling and they’re both sitting in the middle of the bathroom floor with their limbs twisted up together.

He doesn’t remember moving his hand under the bottom of her shirt.

“Say ‘em then,” Killian mutters, doing his best make it sound less like a demand and more like the hope he can feel simmering in the pit of his stomach and Emma smiles in response. “Please,” he adds and she kisses him that time.

Emma keeps her hands on his cheeks and Killian’s fingers find their way around her wrists, like he can’t stop touching her – just to make sure this is real and he didn’t fall off the side of the ship at some point during another fancy event with off-white linens.

“I mean I bought just like...an absurd amount of tests,” she starts. “I think the lady thought I was crazy. And I’ve had so much coconut water in the last four hours that I’m fairly certain that’s all I’ll ever be able to taste again, but, uh...well, every test said positive or had the appropriate number of lines and I don’t think they can all be false positives so…”  
  
Killian kisses her again.

And they spend at least five minutes focused on _that_ before Emma yelps when she realizes she’s somehow landed on top of his legs with her fingers in his hair. “You know we should really come up with a schedule for these major life discussions,” she says. “Then maybe we’d stay on track or have these big-time life moments in more appropriate order.”  
  
“I don’t care about the order,” he counters, quicker than he anticipated, but the words just seem to fly out of his mouth and Emma laughs softly at the earnest way he promises every single letter. “At all. Like. At all.”  
  
“Yeah, I think you made that clear with the bathroom making out.”  
  
Killian lets his forehead fall against his shoulder blade and Emma kisses the top of his hair, no doubt sticking up in a dozen directions after the attack from her fingers. “You really think so?” he asks and his voice is softer than before, but just as earnest and hopeful and he _wants_ in a greedy sort of way he didn’t realize until that very moment.

“I mean I bought every test I could grab. I spent an absurd amount of money on pregnancy tests this afternoon.”  
  
He’s not sure he’s ever made a noise like that – a mix between a gasp and a _whoop_ and just general surprise – and Emma’s smile takes on a decidedly nervous edge. “That’s the first time I’ve used that word,” she whispers and he squeezes his arm around her waist. “And I’m as sure as a human being can be without an actual medical degree.”

The noise sounds almost normal the second time he makes it.

“You’ve got to say words,” Emma pleads and this conversation is very cyclical, but Killian’s too busy kissing every inch of her face he can find and possibly her neck and the side of her jaw and they’re both laughing and he’s never cared less about a schedule in his entire life.

“Did you say this is my fault?” Killian asks incredulously. His brain has only just caught up to that particular part of the conversation. “Isn’t that how it normally works? Where does the doctor come into it?”  
  
“He’s the one who prescribed antibiotics because I had a cold or, you know, the flu or whatever and, you know what, it doesn’t matter. I only went to the doctor because of you.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“We are idiots, you know that?”  
  
“I really don’t,” Killian admits and Emma rolls her eyes.

“Antibiotics mess up birth control. It’s, like, the most basic health class information and I was on antibiotics for two weeks even after I felt better and then we went out to celebrate that huge event get and…”  
  
“And,” he finishes. Emma presses her lips together and he can just make out her teeth biting into the lower one, eyelashes fluttering when he doesn’t actually say any more words. “And,” Killian repeats. “Now we’re every known pregnancy test later and you...we’re going to have a baby? Together?”  
  
It’s easily the most absurd question he’s ever asked because he can see the tests in the trash can and Emma’s more or less told him already, but it’s difficult to formulate sentences when Killian can hear his heart beating in between his ears or just painfully against his ribs.

Emma laughs at him – head thrown back and the smile on her face and tears on her cheeks and _that’s_ easily the greatest sound he’s ever heard.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I mean we should probably go back to the doctor at some point and maybe not mention what idiots we are, but, um, I don’t know how all of those tests could possibly be wrong, so I’m pretty positive I’m pregnant.”  
  
He exhales and squeezes his arm again and Emma tries to twist against him while that word bounces around his skull or something less disgusting and more appropriate for a soon-to-be parent.

“I love you,” he says again and he can feel Emma’s smile against his neck. “And I don’t think we’re idiots. I think we are…” He trails off and there’s no schedule and no plan, just _want_ and he’s positive he can feel the weight of that box as if it’s actually sitting in his hand.

“You going to finish that thought, Jones?” Emma asks, tilting her head up. She blinks when she sees the look on his face.

He probably looks a little manic.

“Is that…” Emma continues. “I know, well, this wasn’t part of the schedule and certainly not part of any plan, but I think we’d be…”  
  
“Of course we will,” Killian interrupts and that’s only the second time he’s ever done that. Or so Emma says. He never really remembered what happened in Patrick and Samantha’s apartment. “You want to get married, Swan?”  
  
Her eyebrows shoot into her hairline and he can see the muscles move in her throat when she swallows and Killian tries to smile, but he can’t quite believe this is how he’s doing it. Mary Margaret is going to kill him.

“What?” Emma whispers, shaking her head in a disbelief he totally understands. “I...what?”  
  
She’s still sitting on his legs so he can’t really move – doesn’t want to move, actually – and his left hand has found her stomach. “This is not because of anything else except what I absolutely want,” Killian says quickly. Her hand moves on top of his and he smiles a bit easier and Emma’s still not breathing evenly. “I can’t believe you haven’t found it yet, but it’s probably because you never put your laundry away.”  
  
He smirks at her and she smacks at his shoulder and they’ve fallen back into _easy_ and _them_ and they’re going to have a baby.

They’re going to get married.

Maybe.

If Emma ever actually answers.

“Yet?” Emma repeats, licking her lips quickly before tugging them back behind her teeth. “As in this has been…”  
  
“I ordered it weeks ago, but it finally got here a couple weeks ago, just before we officially got that gig. Which almost seems prophetic, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Are you suggesting that an engagement ring showing up at our apartment at the same time we were possibly procreating is some kind of life sign?”  
  
“I’m not saying it isn’t.”  
  
“Those double negatives.”  
  
Killian moves his eyebrows and twists his lips and Emma scowls, but it’s clearly in amusement and _they’re going to have a baby._ “I could ask again if you want,” he offers. “One knee and everything, but then you’d have to get up and I’d rather you didn’t do that. I...I love you Emma. I have forever and this is not a product of anything other than exactly what I’ve wanted since the very beginning and…”

His shoulders move when he tries to take a deep breath and there are more tears on Emma’s cheeks. He reaches up to brush them off and she leans into his palm, turning to press her lips against slightly calloused skin and it’s not the plan and in the bathroom and it's goddamn perfect.

“Emma Swan,” Killian says softly and her eyes dart towards him, one hand still resting on her stomach. “Will you marry me?”  
She nods. And he tries not to groan. “Swan,” he mutters, dragging her name out, but the word gets cut off when Emma crashes against him.

Or, more specifically, his lips.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” she says, trying to talk at the same time she’s trying to kiss him and he’s trying to touch every inch of her and, at some point, they should probably get off the bathroom floor.

They do – after more kissing – and Killian gets the box out of the closet and he’ll probably think about the way Emma’s eyes widen as soon as her eyes land on the ring every day for the rest of his life and then the afterlife as well, just for good measure.

“Yeah?” Killian asks and it feels like an even bigger question than before.

Emma rolls her eyes, but they don’t really leave the ring either and it sparkles even in the dim light of their bedroom. At least it seems that way.

It’s different than the one he considered more times than he should have when he was still trying to forget what it felt like to kiss Emma Swan. She doesn’t seem to care about what the ring looks like though, just that it’s hers – a fact she points out to him several times later that night, twisted up in blankets, which are far more comfortable than the bathroom floor and when they eventually fall asleep Killian’s hand is still flat on her stomach.

They don’t tell anyone, not at first, mostly because Mary Margaret is too busy screaming over _engagements_ and _schedules_ and _plans_ to process a baby as well and there’s more screaming and more questions when Emma and Killian promise they’re not interested in any of that.

“We love each other,” Emma tells Mary Margaret, holding the phone out in front of her two days later and David is muttering under his breath in New York. “And we just...well we don’t need a huge royal wedding or champagne or anything like that.”  
  
“No champagne?” David asks out of frame. Emma’s eyes widen.

Killian sighs, tugging the phone out of her hand and staring at a stricken-looking Mary Margaret. “We’re getting married on the ship,” he says. “As soon as possible so tell David that he should get a license off the internet or however that works and he should get a weekend off in June and that’s the plan.”

Mary Margaret doesn’t blink, but David’s already shouting about vows and asking if the Life Church is, somehow, better than the other results that have come up on his Google search and Killian glances towards Emma, the unspoken question hanging in between them.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “That’s what I want.”

It all falls into place from there – and Killian will eventually be quick to admit that it’s half because of Mary Margaret’s sheer force of will and time off from school – and he changes into a suit on the ship while Emma gets ready at home and he’ll never be able to thank Mary Margaret enough for _demanding_ that because Killian can’t ever remember being more stunned by a single moment than the one when Emma steps on deck.

“Deep breaths, little brother,” Liam mutters, clapping him on the back while David tries to turn his laugh into a cough and Killian barely hears either one of them.

The dress barely got there on time – ordered three days after the bathroom and Emma wouldn’t actually admit she was terrified about measurements, but Killian _knew_ and none of it mattered because it fits perfectly and she looks perfect and they’re getting married.

_They’re getting married._

“Fancy seeing you here,” Emma mutters as soon as she stops next to him and holding her hand is probably against some sort of of wedding rule, but Killian doesn’t really care.

_They’re getting married._

There’s not actually a curve to her stomach yet, but Killian _knows_ and his eyes flit towards her midsection before he can stop himself. She squeezes his hand. “Swan,” he whispers. “You look...stunning.”

Her smile seems to spread across her face in slow motion, thumb tracing out patterns on on his palm and David clears his throat to try and get them back on ceremony schedule. Emma ignores him. “You look…”

“Oh, I know.”

Killian kisses her. Or Emma kisses him. And maybe they move at the same time and it’s absolutely against the rules.

Mary Margaret takes pictures.  
  
“You guys good? We ready to actually get married, here?” David asks when they don't’ actually pull away after an appropriate amount of time and Emma rests her forehead against Killian’s. His hand moves back towards her stomach and Mary Margaret gasps.

“Yeah,” Emma promises. “Let’s get married.”  
  
They do and there’s no champagne, but there is more kissing and Killian’s not sure he’s ever smiled that much until eight months later and hours in a hospital room that seem to last for days and he’s positive he’ll never stop smiling when they put her in his arms.

He’s perched on the edge of the bed, Emma’s head on his shoulder and her breathing coming in pants and he can’t stop mumbling compliments to her and the baby tucked into the crook of his elbow. “I love you so much, Swan,” he whispers, making some kind of strangled sound when the baby wraps her tiny fingers around one of his. “Hey there, Cygnet.”

“Oh that’s not even clever,” Emma mutters, exhaustion in every single letter and Killian laughs when she tries to move so he can sit easier on the bed. “And stupidly attractive.”  
  
“Stupidly attractive?”

“I just gave birth to your daughter, Jones, do not question my sentence structure.”  
  
He laughs and it’s enough to jostle the baby slightly, working a quiet nose out of her that takes both Killian and Emma by surprise. “You think we’ve scared her for life yet?” Killian asks, something in the very center of his goddamn soul shifting as soon as Emma runs her hand across the baby’s arm. “And our daughter, Swan. If you want to get technical.”  
  
She sighs softly and there might be tears in her eyes, but Killian knows better than to ask. “Yeah, I’d like that,” Emma whispers. “She needs a name, don’t you think?”  
  
“I mean, eventually.”  
  
“Eventually? You just don’t want to name her?”  
  
“Of course I want to name her, but it’s nearly four in the morning. I think she can wait until we’ve both gotten a few minutes of sleep.” Emma doesn’t say anything, just makes a contrary noise in the back of her throat and Killian lifts his eyebrows in vaguely exhausted, decidedly emotional confusion. “Or…”  
  
“Or I’ve been thinking about a name for, like, nine months. Or, more to the point, since about five minutes before you got home and found me on the bathroom floor.”  
  
“Yeah?”

Emma nods. “Yeah.”  
  
They name her Celeste and call her Cee and Killian keeps using cygnet because it makes Emma smile and they’re both convinced she’s the perfect baby.

David takes offense to that for all of five seconds before Emma glares at him and he doesn’t argue or bring up Robbie’s perfect sleeping schedule again.

Which is probably for the best because while Emma and Killian are fairly certain Celeste is perfect, they’re also running on a few seconds of sleep for the first few months of her life and then one of them decides buying a house with an infant is a fantastic idea and they throw another schedule out the window and move into a giant, ancient, _blue_ house and screw up their daughter’s sleeping schedule again.

It almost doesn’t matter.

In between the crying and the lack of sleeping and definitely breaking laws because neither one of them should probably be doing their jobs while they’re that exhausted, they seem to hit their parenting stride and settle into the kind of life neither one of them expected.

And by the time the calendar flips to December, they’re positive _they_ can host Christmas – mostly so they can show off Cee and control the schedule.

* * *

“But don’t tell Mary Margaret that because she’s very proud of her schedules and her plans and she never did give up your secret,” Killian continues, voice just a bit hoarser than when he started the story. “Uncle David was very surprised to find out about you.”

Cee doesn’t make any noise and Killian tries to move without running the risk of waking her up if, by some miracle, she has actually fallen asleep and he can still smell sweet potatoes.

The floorboards creak when Emma shifts her weight, one of the blankets draped over her shoulders and a soft smile on her face as she leans against the wall.

“How long were you there, love?” Killian asks, but he knows the answer already.

Emma scrunches her nose. “Long enough to be properly woo’ed by your paternal instincts,” she answers, padding into the room, weaving her way through Christmas decorations and an actual honest to God, living tree and there is tinsel everywhere. He didn’t even know they still made tinsel until they found it on Amazon. He made Emma order new socks too.  She brushes one of her fingers across Cee’s back and flashes him a knowing smile. “I told you she was picking voice-type favorites.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s true, Swan. We just lucked out, didn’t we Cyg?”  
  
“She’s asleep.”  
  
“Thank God. How come you’re not?”  
  
“I got cold and, uh...maybe I changed the schedule a litle bit?”

Killian lifts his eyebrows and Emma’s grip tightens on the blanket. They’d planned everything. She’d written every hour of the next three days out to make sure every minute was accounted for and there was a small feast sitting in their fridge and Emma had watched as many turkey-basting tutorials as she could find in the last week.

“What’d you do, Swan?” Killian asks softly, tapping his hand on hers, just underneath her rings.

“I told M’s not to come for another four hours, at least, and then also told her to tell Elsa and Liam and that we’re probably going to have to make all this food together because there’s just too much and I wanted to go back to sleep. With you. I didn’t mention that last part.”  
  
“Probably would have scandalized her anyway.”

“Exactly,” Emma agrees. She leans forward to tug Cee back into her arms, kissing the top of her head and there’s no noise or even a suggestion of waking up and they both linger in the doorway when they put her back in the crib.

Killian tugs Emma back to his chest as soon as the climb back under blankets and her fingers trace over his left arm and ring on his right hand and it only takes a few minutes before his eyelids are fluttering and she’s almost warm when she whispers _I love you_ against his mouth.

It's the best Christmas either one of them has ever had. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! Thank you so much for reading this giant ball of fluff!! This was so much fun to write and I can't tell you how much I appreciated every click, comment and kudos. I hope y'all have a fantastic holiday, whatever you're celebrating and there's just enough snow to be festive, but not too annoying. 
> 
> There is more Christmas fic coming tomorrow because I wrote for my CSSS and have no self control at all. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


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